The Hunt Is On
by CravenHellsing
Summary: Molly Hooper, the timid morgue attendant with a not so secret crush on Sherlock,isn't exactly what she seems; she is a hunter,and the niece of Bobby Singer.What happens when she discovers a secret about a certain consulting criminal? Rated T for safety
1. Meeting the REAL Molly

A.N. Before I begin I would like to first apologize for how long it has taken me to update…well, just about anything. My policy with fanfiction is that I need to FINISH the story before I post it. And, unfortunetly, many times I've started something that I just couldn't finish.

With that out of the way I would like to say that this story is a labor of love. What started as a one-shot to make Molly's character a little less…flat, turned into a nearly 23,000 word story. I was able to finish it without any problems (I cranked this baby out in about 5 days) and I really enjoyed writing it.

For everyone's benefit, this story starts off right after the first Season of Sherlock (and goes through at least the first episode), and around the 5th season of Supernatural.

I hope everyone enjoys and please, if you could, review when you are done! Thank you!

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural OR Sherlock…if I did this work of love would be an episode, thank you very much!

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><p>The morgue of St. Bartholomew's, particularly at night, would scare the pants off of any <em>normal <em>person. With the rows of chambers housing bodies that had been mutilated in some form or another, and the uncanny smell of disinfectant mixed with the iron tang of blood, most people would high tail it out of there as soon as possible. But not Molly Hooper.

She _enjoyed_ working in the morgue at night. No one would bother her. And, if she were being honest with herself, she enjoyed being alone with the bodies.

Not because she had a strange _fetish_. Oh god no.

It was because, at night, no one noticed when she would take the bodies that hadn't been claimed and were no longer being used for an investigation, douse them in a bag of side-walk salt she kept hidden in her office, and burn them in the crematorium. Or when she would move the decorative rug in her office to make sure the devil's trap she had sprayed on the floor when she first started didn't need touching up. Or when a body came in that had strange markings or strange _maulings_, she could make a call to one of her _special_ friends that were spaced out around Europe to go take care of the problem. She especially liked it, though, because she could be herself. The _real _Molly Hooper.

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><p>First, however, a little background behind Molly Hooper. She was born a fairly unremarkable child, to a British father and an American mother. She was an only child who loved cats and pretty things. At age ten, however, things took a drastic turn in her life.<p>

It all started with the murder of her mother and father.

She was never exactly sure what killed them. What she did realize, though, is that whatever it was had torn her mother to shreds and had lain waste to her father. All she can remember of that day was the shields she placed up around herself, to protect herself from the pain and fear.

And the blood on her hands.

She was sent to live with her father's father in Sussex, but it didn't work out. The old man was mad, and hated her. He blamed her for his son's death, and would remind her every day with blows to the head and back with his cane. She pushed the rage and hurt she felt down, deep, behind her shields. And when the abuse was discovered after she turned up at school with blood on the back of her uniform, the child services had to relocate her again.

The only other family she had was her mother's dead sister's husband, of whom she had never met. He lived somewhere in South Dakota, America. His name was Bobby Singer.

Now, Bobby Singer was more than a little reluctant to take in the young girl (she was informed that he had held the lawyers at gunpoint the entire time they stood on his land). Eventually, when he found out that she was the last of his dead wife's family, he took the young girl in. He told her that he was a rare book collector. She was to stay out of certain rooms of his home, and had to attend school to the fullest extent (including finding an after school activity so that she wouldn't be home until supper time). She would come home some nights and would have to stay in her room all night. She would try and study while she listened to his drunken rants. The next morning she would go downstairs where she would find him passed out in one of his many 'forbidden' rooms. But at least he allowed her to call him 'Uncle Bobby'.

It took only a month before she discovered what he _really_ was.

To be fair, Molly had always been quite smart and observant (even if a certain _someone_ didn't think so), so when she was confronted with her first supernatural creature (in her own bedroom!), she did the only thing she could think of. She covered her head with her blanket and screamed for her Uncle, who ran in not two seconds later and shot the thing (turns out later it was a ghost) to high hell.

After that she began to learn how to shoot. The rage that she had felt inside began to dissipate as she found an outlet.

She was an okay shot, but nothing compared to the two boys she met about three months into living with her uncle. It had been late and Molly had fallen asleep on the couch in her Uncle's study, the Old Testament in one hand and his journal in the other. Suddenly a knock sounded at the door.

That was the night she met eleven year old Sam and fifteen year old Dean.

She and Sam, of whom she was only a year younger, became fast friends. He found her to be funny, with her heavy British accent and love of books. Dean, on the other hand, didn't want much to do with her. He was far more interested in learning the tricks of the trade. And protecting his little brother.

Which is probably what began her interest in unattainable men.

She developed a strong crush on Dean, which he did not return in any way, shape, or form. So when, a week later, their father came back to get them, she in turn was _crushed_. She threw herself into her studies and into the research that Bobby forced onto her.

By the time the boys came back, almost a year later, her crush was near nonexistent. As was her skill at hunting. But, as her Uncle Bobby stated, she was a damn good researcher.

Over the next few years she began to develop the skills of a hunter. She became used to seeing dead bodies, mutilated beyond repair, and even doing a little bit of the mutilation herself. She also developed a strong bond with the Winchester boys.

Dean, over the years, began to regard the girl as a younger sister, someone he had to protect just as he had to protect his brother. Sam took advantage of the fact that Molly was an excellent listener, and he began divulging all of his secrets and insecurities to her.

So when Sam left his brother and father, she was probably the least surprised of everyone. She was proud of his decision to go to college. And, to be honest, a bit jealous.

Not even a year later she told her Uncle that she was leaving. Britain was beckoning her, with its call of a normal life. He let her go. He knew how much she wanted this. She had done so well in school, despite the fact that she had made no friends (no one wanted to befriend the weird British niece of the town drunk), and had to endure extreme amounts of teasing, that she had been valedictorian.

Proudest moment of Bobby's life, if he were to be honest with himself.

So she moved into a small flat in London. Bobby had sent her with many boxes of his own first edition, extremely rare books, and a couple of extra little doodads for 'safety'. She swore that she was one of the only people in Britain that slept with a sawed off under her mattress and a silver knife under her pillow. She attended school and, not long after, got the job in the mortuary at St. Barts.

And, not long after that, she had her first run in with the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

He had burst into the mortuary on her second day, demanding to see a fresh body. When he had spotted her he had stared at her like she was a piece of dirt under his shoe. She had felt so…exposed by his stare that she found herself hiding behind the shield that she had built up over the years. He spewed out something about her insecurity and her love of cats, and left it at that.

Unfortunately this was the same moment when she began to develop a crush on said consulting detective.

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><p>Back to present day, Molly Hooper loved nights at the mortuary. The quite, the peace, the…what was that noise?<p>

Molly turned around from the body she was currently examining. She turned back to the body, then strode around the table so that she was facing the doors. This last week had been a bad week; terrifically awful as a matter of fact.

She had been questioned by _three_ separate officers from Scotland Yard, each of whom had questioned her involvement with James Moriarty. She had only known him as Jim from IT. Sweet Jim, who enjoyed watching Glee and playing with her cat Toby, was actually a psychopathic murderer who enjoyed strapping bombs to innocent people.

It was a good thing those officers didn't know about the gun she kept in her cutlery drawer, or the hypodermics of dead man's blood that she kept in the crisper of her fridge. Otherwise they might think her a psychopath as well.

Molly looked down at the body again, sighing when she spotted the telltale signs of a Vetala victim. She pulled out her cell phone and pressed number 7, her contact in Ireland where the victim had come in from.

"_Oi_?"

"Mickey? Yeah, I've got a live one for you. Vetala victim. Fresh. Maybe three days old."

"_T'anks Mol._"

"You're welcome Mick. And watch out; they hunt in pairs."

And that was that. She hung up the phone just as soon as she had called. Conversations were never long when it came to hunters. She sighed and looked at the tag on the toe; another John Doe.

She pushed the body down to the crematorium, scooped a couple of handfuls of salt onto the body, and then pushed it into the flames. She heard a scream issue from the morgue down the hall, and smiled slightly.

She went home around 6 am when the other guy came in to replace her. He gave her a sideways look. He had heard about the Jim/Moriarty incident. Molly, the fake Molly that came out when people were around, dipped her head as she grabbed her coat and keys. She got into the first taxi she spotted, gave him her address, then sulked in the backseat.

Once home she threw her keys at the wall, which startled Toby, who ran and hid under the bed. He was used to his mistresses bursts of anger.

"Damn Jim! Damn Sherlock! Damn _Idgits_!" she yelled, using her uncle's favorite 'nickname' as she punched the wall next to her door. She heard something crack and rolled her eyes. It only took a few seconds and an ice pack for the displaced finger to feel better. She had dealt with worse. She sat down in front of her TV, turning it on but not watching.

She looked down at her phone, bit her lip, then grabbed it up and dialed a very specific number, one that she memorized long ago.

"_Yeah?_" came a gruff voice. Molly smiled.

"Hey Uncle Bobby," she said softly.

"_Molly? What's wrong?_" he sounded worried. Molly smiled even wider. It was nice to know that some people worried about her. After everything that had happened with Moriarty, no one had come to check up on her. Only to accuse her. Suddenly she spilled everything to her Uncle; everything that had happened with Jim, with Sherlock, and then some. By the end she was fingering her favorite pistol, lovingly nicknamed Pretty Boy, and trying to not shoot up her pillows _again_ (she could still remember spending nearly two weeks cleaning up the feathers).

"_Sounds to me like you shoulda shot the idgit when you had the chance_," Bobby said.

"It's not that simple Bobby. He's, like, an insane criminal mastermind."

"_You sure he ain't a demon_?"

Molly laughed.

"Pretty sure. I dosed him with holy water and he ate salted nuts when we were watching Glee."

She could almost _feel _the eye roll.

"Anyway, Uncle, I just wanted to talk to _someone_ that cares about how I am-"

"_Course I care, otherwise I woulda dumped yer ass at a boarding school and left it at that_."

She started laughing. Her Uncle always had the strangest ways of showing how much he cares.

"I know Uncle, I just…needed to let off some steam. Thanks for listening."

"_T'weren't no problem. You know you can call me for anything_."

Molly nodded, tears forming in her eyes.

"I should get some sleep Uncle. Just got off the night shift and all."

"_Good idea. I've got some more research to do for the boys, then I'm gonna turn in myself. Get some rest girly_."

"You too Uncle. By the way, how are the boys?"

She knew her boys, her brothers, were up to their necks in trouble right now. Course, when weren't they? She mused.

"_You know how those two are. Up to their necks in trouble, as usual. I'll tell them to give you a call later_."

Molly laughed to herself, then hung up the phone. She felt ten times better after talking to her Uncle, and sleep came to her fast after that.

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><p>So how is it so far? Review plz! Reviews make me a happy little monkey!<p> 


	2. Chatting With The Boys

Tis a bit of a shorter chapter, but don't worry. I won't leave you hanging!

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><p>Unfortunately the sleep didn't last as long as she would have liked. She woke up, groggy headed, to her phone going off. She slapped her hand out and grabbed the phone holding it on her pillow as she flipped it open.<p>

_Why aren't you at the morgue?_

_SH_

Molly sat up in her bed, staring down at the text, her heart speeding up slightly. She wouldn't say that she had many weaknesses (the fear had been scared out of her years ago), but she sure had a weakness for the man currently texting her. She fumbled with the phone for a moment until she got her keyboard.

_Why? Do you need me at the morgue?_

She glanced at her alarm clock, and then grimaced when she realized that she had only been asleep for about 5 hours. She lay back down and was hoping for another hour or so when her phone went off again.

_Get here now_

_SH_

Molly was in and out of the shower in less than twenty minutes, and hailed a taxi to the morgue with her hair still wet. When she finally got to St. Bart's and down to the morgue, a tense Sherlock and an exasperated John were waiting in front of the double doors.

"That _moron_ in there will not allow me to see the body I need without _clearance_," Sherlock nearly growled. Molly smirked slightly, and then turned to John.

"This is why I got woken up?" she asked. He nodded, sharing a grin with her as Sherlock continued his rant into the morgue. Molly walked in behind him with a sigh, waving at the current technician to go take a much needed break.

She pulled the body out that Sherlock indicated, unzipping the bag and curling her nose slightly at the smell.

"There you go," she said, gesturing at the body, of Sherlock did. She stood off to the side and was just starting to contemplate a large cup of coffee when her cell phone started ringing. It took her a moment to realize that "Carry On My Wayward Son" was blaring from the pocket of her lab coat, but Sherlock and John noticed right away.

"Molly, is that your phone?"

Molly stood up straight from where she had been leaning on the wall. She took out her cell phone and looked at the men.

"Mind if I take this?"

"By all means," John gestured. Sherlock had turned back to the body, ignoring her. She nodded and walked about thirty feet away. John stared at her for a moment, and then laughed slightly.

"Never struck me that Molly would listen to that kind of music."

Sherlock blinked, and then glanced up.

"Me either."

Molly answered the phone quickly after she had left the general vicinity of the two men (particularly a certain someone).

"Hullo?"

"_Molly Molly, well I do declare!_"

Molly laughed out loud, and then covered her mouth when it echoed through the room.

"It is damn good to hear your voice Dean," she said. She could still remember that night, over a year ago, when she realized that the man that she considered her brother, the man who was _supposed_ to be dead, was calling her. Ever since then she loved it when he called, which he made an attempt to do frequently.

"_Bobby called. Said you've been having a bad couple of weeks_."

"Yeah, it's not been fun. But you know me. I'm a tough girl," she said with a cheeky grin. When she was younger, when she used to have really bad days, Dean would cluck her under the chin and call her a tough girl. This would usually be followed with shooting practice.

"_Yes you are. Here, I'm driving so I'm going to give you to Sam. Hang on_."

She listened as she heard shuffling, a muffled yelp, and then a thump as someone dropped the phone. When she heard it get picked up she laughed.

"Hey Sam, did Dean wake you up?"

"_What? No?_" this was punctuated with a loud yawn. Molly laughed, now too absorbed in the conversation to care that the two men behind her could hear her.

"How've you two been?" she asked.

"_Pretty good. Chased by demons, hounded by angels…the usual_."

Molly nodded.

"Yeah, I hear you. Sent Mick on a job yesterday."

"_Oh yeah? What was it?_"

Molly lowered her voice a fraction.

"Vetala. Came in yesterday."

"_Huh, interesting. Dean and I are on our way to try and kill Lucifer._"

"So the usual then?" she joked, but inside she felt something coil deep inside her. The feeling?; intense worry.

"_Yeah, but hearing your voice has made things oh so much better._"

Molly giggled and blushed slightly. Whilst she had never had a crush on Sam (like she had Dean) she recognized the fact that he was a good looking man…even if he was built like a house and could probably crush her with his left hand. She sighed and leaned against the wall.

"I miss you guys," she whispered.

"_We miss you too Mol. Are you planning a trip back any time soon?_"

She thought about it for a moment. Since she rarely took days off and had a fairly good immune system, she had racked up a fair amount of vacation time.

"I'll see what I can do. Look, I should be getting back. I'll talk to you guys later."

"_Talk to you later Molly_," Sam said. Molly had drilled into the boy's heads at a young age that she disliked it when anyone said 'Bye' to her over the phone. It sounded too…finite, to her. She closed the phone and placed it back in her pocket. She turned and stopped. Two sets of eyes were boring into her, one holding a much stronger gaze than the other.

"Who was that?" John remarked casually after a few minutes of awkward silence. Molly shrugged as she walked up to the men. She glanced down at the body.

"Friends of mine. Well…I say friends."

"Acquaintances?" John asked.

"Brothers," Molly replied. John raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't know you had brothers."

Before she could reply Sherlock interrupted.

"She doesn't," he stated. Molly glanced over at him.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"You have no biological family. Parents died when you were young. You were raised by a non-blood-related relative from a fairly early age. If those two men were your brothers, you are in no way biologically related to them."

Molly's eyes narrowed slightly. Sherlock was allowed to get away with many things (many more than most would get away with in her book), but speaking ill of her family was _not_ one of those things.

"You don't have to be biologically related to someone to love them like family," she stated sharply. Sherlock looked up from the body, meeting Molly's eyes for a split second. She felt a flush overtake her face and wished she could look as stoic as him.

"I agree, Miss Hooper," he said suddenly.

"I…what?" she looked up, her face a map of confusion.

"I agree with what you said. Now, I will need a sample of the victims liver tissue. I have an idea…well, actually I have three."

And that was it, or so Molly assumed. She went home not long after putting the corpse back into its own personal fridge, then went back home to get some much needed rest before her shift that night.


	3. Going Home To The Hunt

Lets get some Supernatural all up in this hizzy!

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><p>It was about a week to Halloween when Molly decided it was time to go visit her family. She took two weeks off, packed her bags, dropped her cat off at a kennel, and flew out to Sioux Falls. Bobby greeted her with a hug and a peck on the cheek. He took her home, where she made herself comfortable in her old room, of which Bobby had never changed. She sat on her old bed and looked around the room, smiling slightly. While she had taken most of her stuff to her flat in England, she had kept some of her more infantile objects in this room. She stood up and crossed the room to pick up the old stuffed cat that she had owned before her parents death. She smiled when she realized that it had an uncanny resemblance to Toby.<p>

"Molly, the boys are here!" she heard Bobby yell from downstairs. A big grin graced her features. She set the cat back onto the dresser and bolted out of the room, taking the steps two at a time. Dean barely had time to set his duffel on the floor before he had an armful of woman.

"Dean it is so good to see you!" she hollered, squeezing him. He laughed and pretended to choke. When Molly let go of him he grabbed her arm.

"Look at this Sam. Our little Molly is a big girl now," he teased. Molly pushed the man, who was by far larger and much stronger than her. Sam laughed and wrapped his arm around the woman's shoulders. She looped an arm around his chest and hugged him back.

"It is good to be home."

That night they sat down to a small dinner, just the four of them. It was nice, Molly mused, to actually feel a part of something. After dinner the foursome sat around the kitchen, or in Dean's case leaned against the sink, and sipped on their beers whilst reminiscing.

"God, I've missed this place," Molly said, reclining in the chair. This place, around these men, was the only time she could really be herself. She was allowed to be inhibited, to be blunt, and to allow her true feelings show. She wished she could show Sherlock the real her; the her he might actually be attracted too.

"So how's life treating you over the pond. Aside from the obvious?" Sam asked.

"The obvious?"

"Dead bodies. I mean, I guess I've never understood what caused you to want to work with dead bodies. Considering what it is we do, what you did, for a living."

Molly took a sip of her beer, contemplating her answer.

"Well, for one, I was pretty desensitized to it all when I started working in the morgue. I didn't have nightmares, or break out in cold sweats in the middle of an autopsy. But I guess it also…made me feel more human."

"How do you mean?" Dean asked.

"When we used to hunt, when you guys _do_ hunt, you focus so much on the monster that sometimes…sometimes the victims go unnoticed. Well…I notice them. I give them the recognition they deserve."

She didn't tell them about what she sometimes allowed Sherlock to do to the bodies. Sam 'huh'ed and took a drink. Molly shrugged.

"I will admit, though, I do miss hunting with you guys. The thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rush-"

"Someone's a little adrenaline junkie," Dean laughed. Molly smiled, thinking about thrill-seeking John Watson and how she and John were nothing alike.

"What I miss most, though, is having a purpose. At the morgue all I do is cater to everyone else; the family of the deceased, the detectives during an investigation, and Sherlock-freaking-Holmes."

Molly muttered the last bit, taking a large gulp of her beer. She didn't noticed the looks shared by the three men.

"What is about this Sherlock guy anyway? I swear every time we've talking to you, you always have something to say about the guy. And not all of it is good. Why do you cater to him anyway?"

Molly suddenly looked uncomfortable. She shifted in her seat and avoided looking at Dean. Something must have clicked for one of them, because suddenly Bobby was laughing.

"You got the hots for this guy, don't you!" he hollered.

"What!" Dean yelled. "No way."

Molly looked down, a crimson blush overtaking her face.

"Oh," was all Dean said.

"Oh shut up Dean. It's not like you've never done something stupid for someone you like. Remember Marcy?"

Dean got a dreamy look on his face.

"Boy, do I."

Molly glanced at Sam, and together they did the unison-roll-eyes-thing that they had become famous for in their youth.

"Anyway, we're not talking about Sherlock. He's not interested in me. End of story. Now what is this about Lucifer?"

The rest of the night was spend explaining to Molly what exactly had been happening to the boys in the last few months. The next morning Molly decided to help the boys on a small case a couple of towns over.

It was beautiful to be back on the hunt. Molly relished the feel. She held the sawed off in her hand like an old friend, and loved the fact that she was once again riding in Dean's 'Baby'. She sat back in the seat, her leather-clad arms stretching along the back.

She never even _dressed_ like this in England. Back in England she dressed so safe; silly jumpers, unflattering blouses, too-big-and-to-long pants. It was just another part of that shield of protection she had built around herself. But here…here she could wear her tight jeans, her old combat boots, and her old t-shirts with rock bands on them (some of which had been stolen from Dean when he deemed them too small).

She was no longer 'morgue-attendant-cater-to-every-whim-love-struck' Molly Hooper. Now, she was Molly, the hunter.

The hunt was a small one (she was rusty, so the guys wanted to start her out on something light). A ghost terrorizing an old museum. She smiled when she shot a bullet full of rock salt, and showed some teeth when the ghost burst into a million fragments. Of course, she wasn't smiling nearly as wide when the ghost came up behind her and began trying to choke her to death. But one quick swing from Sam's iron fire-place poker took care of that little incident. And not a moment too soon the ghost burned into nothing, and a grinning Dean, hands full of a bag of salt and a can of lighter fluid, ran into the room.

Not bad for the first hunt in quite some time. God she missed this.

A couple of days later all four drove a few states over. A whole group of vamps (the jugular sucking type, not the 'vegetarian' type) was terrorizing a small town in Utah. Unfortunately Molly was stuck in the hotel room that night, doing research, whilst the guys went to wipe them out. She wasn't complaining all too much though; her first run in with a vampire hadn't been a good one.

She ran a finger over the bite mark on her left shoulder, flinching slightly, before taking a swig of her beer. She might not mind the research, but she sure as hell hated the waiting.

She also had the opportunity, during her vacation, to meet Castiel, the angel that had saved Dean's soul from Hell. She thanked him when they were left alone, giving him a hug (something he wasn't sure how to react to, which Molly found utterly amusing).

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><p>All too soon her vacation was over. She spent her final day walking around the house, her hands running over the wood paneling, her fingers tracing patterns over the grooves.<p>

"I'm gonna miss you girly," Bobby said behind her. Molly turned around and smiled.

"Don't worry Uncle Bobby. I'm not going anywhere any time soon."

"Well, you just remember to call me next week, ya damn idgit. Boys don't do it enough, and I don't need to be worrying about your sorry ass too."

"Of course Uncle Bobby," she walked up to him and pecked him on the cheek. The gruff older man, who smelled of blood and booze, wrapped his arms around the smaller girl. They stood there for a few seconds, then Bobby let her go.

"Let's get you to the airport then," he said quickly, bending over to pick up her suitcase. She pretended she didn't notice him wiping his eyes, or that he was sniffling slightly. The boys were just pulling up to the house when Bobby loaded her bags into his own old classic. They hugged the girl, holding on for just a bit longer than Bobby had.

"You keep in touch now, Mol," Dean said. She nodded when she suddenly felt someone tugged on her. She followed Sam over to a more secluded area.

"Look, Molly, I just wanted to tell you; don't be afraid to be yourself. You keep saying that if you let people see the real you, they will hurt you. But, from what I saw this week Mol, and from what I can remember of our childhood, the real you wouldn't let anyone hurt you. Quit hiding. You are _the_ most amazing person I know."

Then he wrapped his arms around the stunned girl, planted a kiss in her hair, and was gone before she could reply.

On the plane ride back to England Molly mulled over Sam's words. Could she really let down her shields? Could she let people finally see the real her?

She resolved to let herself be shown a bit more. Her real self.

* * *

><p>The first time was during one of Sherlock's own cases. He had shown up at the morgue to look at a couple of bodies while John stared at the pictures of the vehicle the bodies were found in. He kept shaking his head and sighing.<p>

"Well, Sherlock, I guess I don't know cars as well as I thought," he said. "Looks like we're going to have to Google it."

Sherlock looked annoyed as he pulled out his phone. Molly glanced at him for a moment, then walked around and took the photo out of John's hands. Not a minute later she looked up.

"It's a 1969 Chevy Camaro. Gorgeous car. A classic. But I'm more of an Impala girl myself."

Sherlock couldn't help the disbelief that crossed his face. Molly felt that familiar blush creeping across her face, but she met his gaze. He stared at her for a minute longer, then looked down at his phone. He glanced at her one more time before typing a message into his phone. Molly turned away and went to put the body away. When she was alone she allowed herself a very large smile.

Not long after that incident Sherlock started to notice Molly doing things very…un-Molly-like. One morning he entered the morgue to find some sort of heavy-guitar laden music blaring and echoing throughout the room. He had been forced to cover his ears as he walked into the autopsy room, where she was slicing up a body and bobbing her head to the very _very_ loud music. He had finally found the source and turned off the system.

"Hey! That is my favorite song!" she yelled, turning to face him. She stopped short when she realized who it was.

"What was that racket?" he yelled.

"It was…_Fade to Black_ by Metallica," she muttered, shrugging. Sherlock stared at the woman for a moment, then left the morgue.

Molly stared after him for a moment, then turned back to the body.

Another time she was caught doing something very 'un-Molly-like', Lestrade caught her. She was at a local gun range that the police officers used (and one of the only ones…this is Britain after all). She was shooting her own pistol, something she enjoyed doing on her day off. She didn't notice the grey man standing behind her looking on in disbelief. He finally made himself known when she brought the target forward and smiled at the bullet holes littered about the center.

"Molly Hooper? Is that you?" he asked.

Molly barely heard his muffled voice. She quickly pulled off the ear protection, her face paling slightly.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. What are you doing here?"

"I was just coming to practice for a bit. What are _you_ doing here?"

Molly started, stepping back a couple of paces. Then she took a deep breath.

Remember, she told herself, you are a tough girl. Like Dean says.

"I was doing the same. You never know when knowing how to shoot a gun might come in handy," she said, cursing the slight quiver in her voice. But she stood up straight and, for the first time since the man had met her, she looked him in the eyes.

"Oh…well, I agree," he said, holding out his hand to see the target she had been shoot at. She handed it to him reluctantly. He held it out and his eyes widened.

"Wow…I wish some of the guys on my force could shoot this well," he said. He set down the paper and raised an eyebrow at her.

"Where did you learn to shoot?" he asked.

"Um, my Uncle taught me. He was…he was a hunter," she said, hiding a smile behind her hair as she bent over to load more bullets into her pistol.

"Interesting," he said. Molly stood up and put the pistol into the holster on her pants.

"Anyway, I should get going," she said before he could inquire further. He bid goodbye to her, not even commenting on the gun on her hip. When she left he whipped out his phone and decided to text John.

_Did you know that the morgue attendant, Molly, knows how to shoot? She's almost better that you!_

_GL_

* * *

><p>John Watson heard his phone ping, sending him a text alert. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, then turned back to his newspaper. John stared at the text for a moment, then looked up at Sherlock.<p>

"I think I'm going to invite Molly over for Christmas."


	4. Happy Freaking Holidays

This is one of my favorite chapters. It also contains some spoilers from 'Scandal in Bavaria'.

* * *

><p>Three days to Christmas John Watson invited Molly Hooper to his and Sherlock's flat for a Christmas party.<p>

She knew that this was it. This was her opportunity to let the real Molly shine.

She went out that day and spent the entire day shopping, instead of sleeping (luckily she was used to sleepless nights…comes with territory of hunting). She visited the mall and walked around the stores, trying to figure out what to get people.

She found a couple of nice things for Mrs. Hudson and John (she didn't know them very well, but she wasn't going to just show up without gifts for them). And she even got a nice new leather belt for DI Lestrade. But she wasn't sure what she could get for Sherlock. She knew it had to be something special. Something that would catch his attention.

As she pondered she continued to window shop. She smiled at some of the silly outfits she saw.

"To small, to tight, not easy to fight in," she ticked off out loud. Suddenly her eyes widened and she stopped speaking.

It was a very pretty, curve hugging, sparkly dress. She had always had a weakness for sparkly things.

She entered the store and went to the rack that the dresses were hanging on. Never in her life had she ever owned such a pretty dress. Bobby had always insisted her clothing be functional, not fashionable. But she knew if she were to get Sherlock's attention, she wouldn't be able to do it in a silly jumper and unflattering skirt.

She bought the dress after trying it on and realizing that it hugged her in all the right places. She bought a matching pair of black high heels (also her first pair she had ever owned). And when she spied the sparkly earrings she snapped those up too.

She was still unsure what to get Sherlock though. She left the mall and continued walking down the street. She was about to give up when her eyes caught a tiny little shop that looked like it had been shoved between two larger shops. She walked over to it and spied something in the window. Something that _knew_ would catch Sherlock's attention.

It was a magnifying glass. But not just any magnifying glass. The handle was made of cherry wood, with real gold bands at the front and end. The glass itself sparkled in the light that shone down on it. Molly stared at it, her eyes wide, when she spied the price tag. She flinched and huffed sadly.

"It is a beaut, isn't it?" came a voice behind her. Molly turned around quickly, instinct telling her to put the wall at her back.

"Oh dear. Sorry pet, didn't mean to scare you!" the little old man that had been standing behind her said. Molly stared at him. He was a hunched over elderly man, a hat on his balding head and a cane under his folded hands.

"It's…it's alright," she said, stepping away from the wall. The old man held out a hand.

"Wilfred Albright, at your service.

"Um…Molly. Molly Hooper," she said, taking the hand after a moment's hesitation. After she shook his hand he gestured at the magnifying glass she had been gazing at longingly.

"You like it?" he asked. Molly turned and stared at it before nodding sadly.

"Not for yourself though?"

She shook her head.

"A friend?"

She shrugged.

"Sort of," she finally answered. "I mean…I'm not sure if he considers me a friend or not. I…I was hoping we could be something a bit more. But…"

She trailed off and shrugged again. Wilfred nodded his head solemnly.

"I know how that goes. My wife, rest her soul, was a hard catch for me too. I proposed to her four times before she finally said yes," he laughed slightly, and soon Molly found herself laughing too.

"So what is the name of your interesting man?" he asked.

"Oh, erm, Sherlock Holmes."

"Well my my, now I _know_ why you took a liking to my glass. I read about the man in the paper," he said, entering the shop. Molly followed him. He walked over and picked up the magnifying glass, handing it to her. She placed her bags down and took it gingerly, studying it carefully. Close up it was even prettier. Regal looking, even.

She turned it over and nearly dropped the glass in surprise. On the bottom was a five pointed star, a pentacle that had been carved smoothly into the bottom.

"Ah, and now you see why I've been having a problem selling the thing. Everyone sees the symbol, thinks it is demonic, and refuse to buy it."

Molly stared at it, then shook her head.

"No…no it isn't demonic. It's a Pentacle. It is a symbol of…protection," she said, thinking back to all of the books she had gone through as a child.

"I need this. For him," she said, holding the glass tightly in her hand. Wilfred smiled.

"Then it is yours," he said softly. Molly started, holding the glass to her chest.

"Oh but…but I don't have enough-"

Wilfred waved his hand.

"Like I said, no one ever wants it. And you seem like a…a good girl," he said. He held his hand out and she handed him the magnifying glass. He wrapped it in tissue paper and carefully set it in a gold colored box. He closed the box gingerly and handed it to Molly.

"Thank you. I don't…I don't know how I can thank you," she said. He shrugged.

"Stay safe sweetheart. Stay safe," were his mysterious words. Molly nodded, an eyebrow raised. She turned, grabbed her bags, and left as quickly as she could, holding the box close to her chest. She got to her flat in record time and placed everything on her bed before tearing into her closet. She shuffled through the things on top until she found the box of wrapping paper she had been looking for. She pulled out a roll of green Christmassy wrapping paper, and was about to start wrapping Sherlock's gift when she saw a slip of red sticking out of the box. She pulled the red wrapping paper out of the box, a smile on her face.

She remembered once, when she was younger, Dean had told her that red was the color of passion. She stared at the wrapping paper a moment, then set it down and bolted into the bathroom. She pulled out her meager supply of lipsticks, then sat back down on the bed. She opened up tube after tube, dotting them on her hand and comparing them to the wrapping paper. She smiled when the last one she tested, Passion Red, was near the same as the red wrapping paper. She put the rest of her lipsticks away then resumed wrapping Sherlock's gift. She suddenly had a thought. She grabbed a piece of paper off of her desk and scrawled a quick message, sticking it underneath the magnifying glass.

She was careful to make sure the wrapping wasn't crinkled and that everything was symmetrical. She even took a gold bow that had been shoved to the bottom of the wrapping paper box and very carefully wrapped it around.

Lastly she cut a small square of the red wrapping paper, pulled a violet pen out of her bed side table drawer, and wrote out _Merry Christmas Sherlock, Love Your Molly XOXOX_

She stopped, holding the pen in the air. Would he find it to be too much?

She crumpled up the paper, cut out another square, and tried again. Three bits of paper later she opted for the simplest message she could manage.

_Dearest Sherlock _

_Love Molly XXX_

* * *

><p>How had things gone so…<em>wrong<em>?

Molly had shown up at the party a little bit late (blame the hair…it took forever to get it styled as so), but when she took off her coat everyone had been impressed by her outfit. Everyone except Sherlock.

And when she tried to make a joke, emphasis on _tried_, everyone let out one of those awkward laughs.

Everyone except Sherlock.

But that wasn't even the worst bit. The worst was when he noticed the gift, and started spewing out hurtful deductions faster than his tact (if he honestly _had_ any) could stop him. Not even John's words could get Sherlock to shut up.

Molly stood there, her hands clutched around the wine glass in her hands, trying not to look as embarrassed as she felt.

She listened as he remarked on the lipstick and wrapping paper association (honestly, she had though it was brilliant). She flinched as he made a remark about the size of her breasts. But the worst part, honestly, was when he saw the name tag, and didn't say anything.

Seconds ticked by. And in those seconds Molly realized that now, now would be the moment to say something. To tell him to bugger off. Or to tell him that he was wrong. Anything. Tonight was supposed to be the night that the _real_ Molly Hooper was supposed to shine. But, instead, she was trying to reinforce the shields around her, to block out what was happening.

Suddenly she remembered those words Sam had told her a couple of months ago.

She steadied her hands and opened her mouth.

"You say such horrible things. Every time. Always…always."

Okay, so it wasn't exactly a strong-willed, emotion rousing speech. But it got the job done. And it was more than she had ever said before.

Sherlock actually looked ashamed for a moment. He turned as if to go, then turned back.

"I am sorry. Forgive me."

Molly looked up in surprise. She had never heard the man actually apologize before.

Then he did something that really took her by surprise. He leaned down and whispered, "Merry Christmas Molly Hooper," before kissing her chastely on the cheek.

Molly felt her heart go down into her stomach and a flush rise on her cheeks. She was about to say something (probably gibberish with the way she was feeling) when a noise issued from Sherlock. His pocket to be exact.

And _damn_ that noise.

Molly looked astonished and surprised, before insisting it wasn't her. When Sherlock said it was him, she had a moment when she almost hoped…but it was his phone. He left the room soon after.

Molly drank her wine quickly, hoping to feel the heady feeling that she got when she drank. All she could think about was the kiss. And how, for just that moment, she thought that something could have happened. That maybe, just maybe, that kiss could have become something more.

And that _damn_ noise.

Molly left a few minutes into the party when she realized Sherlock wasn't coming out of his room. She had just gotten home and changed into a silly Christmas jumper (Dean had gotten it for her as a gag gift…but at least it was warm). She tore the bobby pins out of her hair, the cute little bow disregarded on the floor for Toby to play with, and was just settling down for a good sulk and gun polishing when her cell phone went off.

_I need you at the morgue. Now._

_SH_

Molly, for just a split second, saw red. She wanted to tell him no, tell him to go screw himself.

But her shields were back up, and the fake Molly just couldn't say no to Sherlock Holmes. So she left. She didn't even bother changing. What was the point?

Molly was already at the morgue by the time Sherlock and the other man showed up. He didn't even bother introducing himself. Molly stood by awkwardly as he spoke to Sherlock.

"You didn't need to come in Molly," Sherlock said. Molly nearly rolled her eyes and reminded him about the text he sent earlier, but the look on his face…well, she knew that look.

"It's okay. Everyone else was busy with…Christmas," she said. She didn't have to say any more on that subject. He knew she had no family here in Britain.

"The…that face is a bit sort of…bashed up. So it…it might be a bit difficult," she stuttered. Sherlock was staring her down. She flushed slightly, then reached up and took ahold of the sheet. She glanced up at Sherlock, then looked away when she realized he was paying no mind to her. He was staring down at the body.

"It's her, isn't it?" the other man asked.

"Show me the rest of her," Sherlock said, ignoring the man. Molly started, her eyes widening. She blinked, her mind racing as she wondered at the implications of the simple phrase. But she did as she was told and pulled the sheet down. She watched as Sherlock's eyes bore down on the body, his gaze hard and steady. He looked up at Molly, then away just as quickly.

"That's her," was all he said. He left quickly after that. Molly watched him go.

"Thank you Miss Hooper," the other man stated. Molly turned to him.

"Who is she?" she asked, her mind racing. The man was turning away, bit when she asked he turned back. Molly almost lost her nerve, then took a deep breath and pushed on.

"How did Sherlock recognize her by…not her face?"

The man gazed down at the body a moment, then back up at Molly. A smile graced his features, but it wasn't a kind smile. It was almost…condescending. Molly felt an anger overtake her inside. But she tamped down on it again. Now was not the time for such intense emotion. The man then left without a second look. Molly gazed down on the body again, her lips pressed together, before she covered it back up with a sheet.

She put the body away and was getting ready to leave when she heard voices. It was Sherlock and the other man, talking. She glanced over and saw Sherlock smoking.

I didn't know he smoked, she thought. She stood against the wall and watched the men.

"You barely knew her," she heard the other man say clearly. Sherlock turned away from him and walked away. Molly stepped back into the darkness, watching Sherlock. She gasped slightly when she saw the look on his face.

It was the same look she got every time Sherlock turned her down or hurt her.

Heartbreak.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat in his room later that evening, his mind racing. He held the camera phone in his hands, flipping it around then pressing a button, opening it up to the password screen.<p>

He looked up suddenly and spied the gift that Molly had gotten him. He had been so preoccupied earlier that he hadn't even bothered opening it. He strode over to the gift, picking it up and shaking it slightly. His eyebrows furrowed and he proceeded to tear the wrapping paper off of the box.

He studied the box. It was a dark gold color, slightly shiny. No markings, no emblems.

He slowly opened the box and his eyes widened in surprise. He set the box down and carefully pulled the magnifying glass from inside. He studied it, turning it in his hands. He stopped when he got to the pentacle at the bottom. His gaze shifted back to the box when he saw the hastily written note inside.

_Sherlock, _

_Just so you know, the pentacle on the bottom of the glass is the pagan symbol of protection, _not_ demonic. I just thought you could use it._

_Molly XXX_


	5. Even Hunters Need Help

It had been so stupid of Molly. So so so very stupid. And reckless.

Molly leaned against the brick wall, her breath coming out in shallow gasps, her left hand clutching her side as blood seeped between her fingers. She moaned slightly, trying to block out the pain. She stared up into the dark sky, the moon just a small crescent in the sky. Tears poured down her face.

She couldn't die. She just couldn't. It was so stupid.

She reached down with her right hand and fished her phone out of her pocket, thankful that the slashes in her legs were just a little further south. She didn't know what she would do without her phone.

She gasped in another breath and tried not to scream. She felt her cracked ribs shift slightly with every breath. She dialed the numbers without looking at the phone, then lifted it up to her ear.

* * *

><p>The day had started out so normally. She had shown up for her shift at 7pm only 3 days after the fiasco at Sherlock's flat. She hadn't seen neither hide nor hair of the man since that day, and she was perfectly fine with that.<p>

She had heard of a new body being brought it that night. Female, in her early thirties. Suicide, apparently. She had lived in a home with three other woman. All were patients at a mental asylum, but were competent enough to live outside the asylum.

Molly began the examination. She was writing down the cause of death when she realized a trend in the wounds. They were fairly common wounds for a mental patient suffering a breakdown, including the large slashes across her wrists. But what drew Molly's attention was the strange, deep hole behind her ear.

She went into her office and pulled out her journal. She had started her own hunter's journal when she was a teen. Most of it was just theoretical, or stuff that had happened to the Winchester's or her Uncle, but some of the information was personal. And, as she flipped through the pages, she realized that she knew she recognized where the markings had come from.

She smiled when she found the page.

It was a wraith. A wraith had killed this woman.

Molly picked up her cell phone and was about to get ahold of her contact in London when a stray thought entered her mind.

Why can't I do it? She thought to herself.

Why couldn't she? She was strong. She knew how to hunt. And it wouldn't be the first wraith she had taken down.

Suddenly Molly was full of enthusiasm. It had been months since she had been on a hunt.

She put the body away and called the other night guy, telling him that she wasn't feeling all that good. After he showed up she went home and changed into boots and a tight black shirt, swapping her lab coat for her leather jacket. She packed up her pistol with her supply of silver bullets and a silver knife before heading out on foot to the home. It was even in walking distance of her flat. This was going to be the easiest hunt she had ever done.

She showed up at the house about twenty minutes later. She stood outside, staring up at the lights in the windows. As a matter of fact, _all_ of the lights were on in the home. And there was a car parked outside that had the asylums name on the outside. Molly ran forward and hid in the bushes underneath the window. She sat up on her haunches and glanced up through the window.

Inside the three women were sobbing while a fourth, a man, walked around them. He would touch their faces every couple of seconds and they would begin to wail even louder.

The wraith.

He was smiling as he circled the women. Molly watched for a moment longer, then had enough. She decided to take a direct approach to this.

She kicked down the door with a strength that had taken years of training. She stomped into the front room and held up her gun, a smile on her face.

"Enough," was all she said. The wraith stared at her a moment.

"You are a hunter?" he asked, his accent strongly Norwegian. "But you are so…small."

The smile slid from Molly's face. The wraith smiled, reaching out to touch two of the women.

"Get her," he whispered. Suddenly the women turned to Molly, their smiles manic. Molly gasped. They were humans, and one of the rules of a hunter was the protect humans. Not kill them.

The women rushed Molly. One held a kitchen knife in her hand, while the other clutched a meat cleaver. The meat cleaver met Molly's ribs. She heard a solid crack and nearly screamed. She fell to the ground as the one with the knife sliced into her leg. Molly kicked her in the chest as hard as she could, sending the woman flying across the linoleum floor. She lashed out and punched the other woman solidly in the face. She heard the woman's nose crack as she fell to the floor.

Molly pushed herself up, wincing at the pain in her chest. She pulled out her gun and aimed it at the wraith again. She was about to pull the trigger when she felt a sharp pain in her side. Molly looked down, gasping slightly as she dropped the gun.

The third woman had picked up the butcher knife and had driven it into Molly's side, slicing through her skin and past the muscle. Something important had probably been nicked, but she was too busy to worry about that now. Placing one hand over the wide open gash, she kicked the woman hard in the chin, sending her onto her back.

The wraith stood nearby, laughing. He watched as Molly took a step forward before falling to one knee. She gasped, trying to hold the gash in her side. The wraith finally decided enough was enough. He strode forward and grabbed her hair, pulling her face towards him.

"Well well well, pretty little hunter. Bit tougher than you look," he laughed. Molly was suddenly reminded of James Moriarty.

In fact, he was starting to look like Moriarty. She knew that the hallucinations were some of the first reactions humans had when coming into contact with a wraith.

This enflamed something inside of the woman. Whilst the wraith was laughing Molly reached around behind her, taking her hand off of her gaping, bleeding wound to grasp the silver knife in her hand.

The wraith looked down on her again, then raised his right hand, the one not holding her hair, and began to reveal the reason he was a wraith; a long, bony stem began to crawl from inside his wrist. Molly stared at it, then stared into the eyes of the wraith.

"That's right you son-of-a-bitch. I'm a tough girl."

Molly lashed up and stabbed the wraith in the heart. It screamed, reaching up to try and get the knife out of its chest, but it couldn't grip it without its hands smoking. It screamed again then fell to the floor.

Molly gingerly got off the floor and limped over to the body. She gripped the handle of the knife and pulled it out, wiping the blackish blood on the wraiths clothing. One of the women, then first one that Molly had kicked off of her, was just coming too. She pushed herself up and covered her mouth with her hand. Molly turned when she heard the gasp.

"Thank you," the woman muttered. Molly nodded.

"When the police come, tell them that he attacked you three, and that he was stabbed in self-defense," she said, gesturing at the butcher knife. The woman nodded and thanked Molly again. Molly put the knife away and left the house. As soon as she was outside she nearly collapsed from the pain. She held her side, biting her lip as she felt the blood run down her side.

She limped for a few more blocks before collapsing into an alleyway.

It had been so stupid of Molly. So so so very stupid. And reckless.

Molly leaned against the brick wall, her breath coming out in shallow gasps, her left hand clutching her side as blood seeped between her fingers. She moaned slightly, trying to block out the pain. She stared up into the dark sky, the moon just a small crescent in the sky. Tears poured down her face.

She couldn't die. She just couldn't. It was so stupid.

She reached down with her right hand and fished her phone out of her pocket, thankful that the slashes in her legs were just a little further south. She didn't know what she would do without her phone.

She gasped in another breath and tried not to scream. She felt her cracked ribs shift slightly with every breath. She dialed the numbers without looking and held the phone to her ear.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, your phone is ringing," John said. Sherlock ignored him. He was busy looking through his microscope. John stared at the man.<p>

"What?" Sherlock finally hollered.

"Your phone. It is ringing. Could be a possible client," John stated. Sherlock rolled his eyes, reached into his pocket, and answered the phone without checking the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"_Oh…oh thank god. Sherlock, please…please help me. Oh god…_" came a female voice. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and he stood up from his chair.

"Who is this?" he asked briskly.

"_It's…ah…it's Molly Hooper. I need your help. I'm hurt…really really bad,_" he heard her gasp out. Sherlock was already taking off his dressing gown and trading it out for his pea coat. John watched the frantic process and, without a word, began to change into his own jacket.

"Molly? Where are you?"

This made John stop. He turned to Sherlock and mouthed 'Molly?' Sherlock didn't reply, instead opting to put his phone on speaker. A heavy gasping filled the room, followed by sounds of extreme agony.

"_I'm…I'm about a block away from the Bleeding Heart Tavern….Sherlock, I've lost a lot of blood…and I think my lung is punctured. I think…_"

"Molly, be quiet, and listen to me very very well. We are coming to get you Molly. Okay. _We are coming to get you_. Stay on the phone with me."

Sherlock and John were already outside. John was hailing a taxi. Both men got inside the taxi, Sherlock giving him directions.

"Molly…Molly are you still with me?"

"_Yes…I'm a tough girl Sherlock…I'm…I'm a tough girl…_" her voice was getting fainter. Sherlock looked up at the cabbie.

"Please go faster," he said. The cabbie nodded and sped up a bit. When they were a block away from the Bleeding Heart Tavern, Sherlock and John bolted out of the taxi.

"Molly, where are you?"

"_Alleyway…hurry_," she whispered.

Sherlock was running down one side of the sidewalk while John ran in the opposite direction. Sherlock almost gave up when he noticed the blood on the sidewalk. He followed it until he finally came upon Molly.

"John, I've found her!" he yelled loudly, bending over to get a closer look at the wounded woman.

"Oh Molly, what have you done to yourself?" Sherlock whispered, his hands ghosting over her face and arms.

"Thank god…Sherlock," she whispered, her eyes closing of their own accord. John ran over, his cell phone to his ear. He was speaking to the paramedics.

"There is an ambulance on its way," John said, crouching down next to Sherlock.

"Molly. Molly keep your eyes open. That's it," Sherlock said when Molly opened her eyes. She gazed up at Sherlock, leaning her cheek into his hand. John pulled up her shirt and hissed when he saw the large gash on her side. He pulled off his jumper and set it against the wound, pushing to try and stop the blood. She hissed but didn't yell.

"Sherlock, keep her talking," John whispered. He had moved down to her leg. He tore her pants and she winced. He began to examine the slashes in her leg.

"Molly, I never thanked you for the gift you got me," Sherlock said, holding her face in his hands. Molly's eyes moved up to meet his.

"You…you liked it?" she whispered.

"Yes, very much. It is on the mantel piece, next to my skull."

"You won't…use it?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowing slightly. Sherlock turned when he heard the sirens getting closer. He turned back and shook his head.

"I don't want to take it on investigations. I don't want to break it."

"Oh…well…that makes sense," she whispered. The ambulance had just pulled up and Sherlock was starting to stand when Molly grabbed his wrist, holding it in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Sherlock…take my cell phone…in my contacts…call Dean…tell him…" she gasped, taking in a deep breath and wincing. Sherlock nodded and leaned in closer. He spied her cell phone on the ground nearby and picked it up.

"What do you want me to tell Dean?"

Molly's eyes opened wide and she gasped in another breath.

"Tell him…the tough girl took a solo…and got hurt real bad…tell him," she let go of Sherlock's arm, her hand dropping to her side. Sherlock grasped her by the shoulders.

"Molly? _Molly?_" he yelled. Suddenly he was pushed back by the paramedics. They surrounded her, pulling out the crash cart.

"Clear!" one of them yelled. Molly's body bounced off the ground as the electricity bounded through her body.

"Charging! And…clear!"

Sherlock and John stood off to the side, looking on in apprehension and worry. Sherlock clutched the cell phone tightly in his hand.

"Charging! And…clear!...we've got a pulse!" one of them yelled. John breathed a sigh of relief.

While the paramedics got Molly bundled inside the ambulance a police cruiser pulled up. Lestrade and Donovan got out and ran over to Sherlock and John.

"What the hell happened?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm not sure," John asked. "She called Sherlock, begging for help."

"What the hell," Lestrade said slowly. Sherlock nodded in agreement. He looked down at the cell phone in his hands, then flipped it open and started to go through the caller ID.

_Dean W._

This much have been the Dean she was talking about, he mused. He hit the 'talk' button and held the phone to his ear. It ran twice before a tired, male voice answered.

"_Mol, why are you calling me so damn early. Forget about the time difference again?_"

"This isn't Molly Hooper," Sherlock stated. He heard the male on the other line sit up. His voice became suddenly awake and hard.

"_Who is this? How did you get this phone?_"

"I'm a…friend of Molly's. She wanted me to tell you…the tough girl went on a solo, and got hurt real bad."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, rolling his eyes at the bad grammar. But that was what Molly wanted him to say. The man on the other end was silent. Then it sounded like he was standing up.

"_How bad?_"

"Well, she's already died once. But no worries, they brought her back. She's on her way to St. Bart's hospital right now."

Silence again. Then the phone hung up. Sherlock stared down at the phone, then shook his head and shrugged.


	6. Sherlock, Meet The Winchesters

Actually I think I like this one best...the long awaited meeting!

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John waited in the waiting room at St. Bartholomew's hospital. Lestrade and Donovan had been with them for a while, but had to leave when they received a call about a potential self-defense murder in a local home.<p>

Sherlock was used to being here, and used to seeing Molly here. But never, ever in this situation. He turned her cell phone listlessly in his hands. John sat hunched in his chair, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands.

A doctor walked into the waiting area. Sherlock and John sat up straight, but the doctor walked past them to another family nearby.

"I never thought I would see the day…I mean, Molly is just so…full of life," John murmured, sitting back in the uncomfortable chair. Sherlock stared out, turning the phone over and over.

"I just…" he trailed off.

"Just?" Sherlock asked, not looking at John.

"I'm just wondering what the hell happened?" John said. Sherlock sighed and rubbed his face with the hand not holding the phone.

"I'm not sure John. I know what happened to her body; punctured lung, broken rib, gashes on her leg and side. Gashes done by a butcher knife, obviously, and the rib was blunt force trauma with a hammer-like object. The lung was punctured by one of the broken ribs."

John didn't say anything. He understood that this was Sherlock's way of coping. Sherlock leaned forward.

"She was attacked by no less than three people. She also had defensive wounds; bruises on her knuckles and a twisted ankle from a mis-planted kick. But the attack isn't what interests me," Sherlock suddenly said.

"Really? Then what is?" John asked.

"What interests me…is why would Molly do something like this? This isn't…she isn't like this. The Molly I know is timid, meek, and has little to no self-esteem. But this…this was an attack. She defended herself and she won."

"Doesn't look like she won to me. Whoever mugged her-" John started, but he was interrupted when Sherlock turned to him.

"No, but she did. She escaped, didn't she. This wasn't just a simple mugging. This…this was something more. Much more."

John stared at Sherlock a moment, then leaned back in the chair. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again.

"You don't think…Moriarty?"

Sherlock stared at him a moment. The idea had crossed his mind once or twice. He turned away from John's penetrating stare when he heard a commotion coming from the nurses' station.

"I don't care! I need to see Molly Hooper right now!" came a male American voice.

"Calm down. I'm sorry ma'am, it's just, we heard she was here and we are family. We really need to see her," came a softer male American voice. John glanced at Sherlock, who shrugged, and together they got up and walked over to where the voices were coming from.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was that there were, in fact, three men. Two of them, the two that were talking, were big and muscular (although one was far larger than the other…built like house if you could imagine it). Both had brown hair, although one had shorter hair than the other, and were obviously brothers. The third man was smaller, with black hair and bright blue eyes much like Sherlock's. And he was clad in a long brown trench coat. He was the first to spot Sherlock and John.

"They know where Millie is," he said, his voice deep and gravelly.

"It's Molly, Cas. And who-" the shorter man turned around and stopped, coming face to face with the two men.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We should be asking the same thing. We had it set up so that only authorized personnel can see Molly. Safety procedure," John said. The extremely large, hulking man stepped forward. He smiled.

"Well, I'm Sam. And this is my brother Dean. And this is our friend Castiel. Dean and I, we're Molly's cousins."

Sherlock cocked his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. He turned to face Dean.

"You are the one I spoke to on the phone earlier?" he asked. Dean narrowed his own eyes, then nodded.

"When I spoke to you, you mentioned a time difference. That it was early in the morning for you. Which means you were somewhere in American, judging by your accent. Molly came to Bart's only two hours ago. So my question to you is; how did you get here so quickly?"

Dean's eyes widened a fraction and flicked over to Castiel while Sam flinched. Sherlock glanced over at the dark haired man, but he didn't react. The five men were silent when suddenly the doctor came out.

"Molly Hooper?" he asked. All five men turned to face the doctor, who jumped slightly. He glanced around at the men.

"How is she?" John finally asked.

"Well, we lost her once more during surgery, but we finally got her stabilized. We stitched her up and we're replacing the blood she lost. If all goes well, and she doesn't get an infection, she should be able to get out of here in a week or so."

Dean and Sam both sighed in relief. John rubbed his forehead and smiled. Sherlock didn't move, but inside he felt the coiled up ball of worry loosen.

"Can we see her?" Sam asked. The Doctor nodded.

"In a bit. We're going to let her rest for a while more, and then we'll let you in to see her."

"Thank you doctor," John said. The doctor nodded again and left. The five men glanced around at each other, then unanimously walked into the waiting room. Sherlock sat down, and Dean sat across from him. Sam and Castiel sat on either side of Dean, while John sat across from Sam. About twenty minutes of awkward silence ticked by.

During that time Sherlock observed the three men. Sam was easy; smart, but very tough. Went to college but never graduated. Travels in a vehicle majority of the time. Lives out of a suitcase. Knows how to shoot, and how to fight, but has more compassion than his brother. And something else there. Something hidden from view. A darkness inside.

Dean was a bit harder. Unlike his open-book of a brother, Dean kept himself much better hidden. A ladies man, no diploma. Something traumatic happened to him fairly recently. And traits that matched his brother, so obviously they traveled together. But Sherlock couldn't get much else out of him.

He turned to Castiel, then blinked. He couldn't get…_anything_ from the man. Sherlock blinked, glanced at John, and then turned back to Castiel. This time he caught the man staring at him. Sherlock felt…_unnerved_, and, for the first time in a long time, was the first to look away.

Finally John got sick of the silence.

"Well, since you three have introduced yourselves, I guess we should introduce ourselves," he said, effectively breaking the silence.

"I'm John Watson, and this is my colleague, Sherlock Holmes."

Dean's eyes widened.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he asked. Sherlock's eyebrow raised and he nodded.

"Dean," Sam let out a warning.

"You are _the_ Sherlock Holmes? The one that has rejected and put down Molly at every freaking turn? The one who has hurt her, used her, and treated her like dirt?" Dean began to stand up, his voice becoming louder and louder. Sherlock stared at the man.

"Apparently," was all he said. John sighed loudly and put his face in his palm. Suddenly Dean lunged forward and grabbed Sherlock's collar, dragging the man upright.

"_Is this your fault?_" he yelled, shaking Sherlock slightly. Sherlock reached up and tried to pry the man's hands open, but he wasn't nearly as strong. John and Sam had both lunged up to grab the two other men. Castiel watched from the side, his eyes wide but unreactive.

"Dean. Dean, this isn't his fault," Sam said.

"Sam's right. She was attacked," John added in.

"Molly would never be this reckless, you know that Sam. Not unless something happened. So _what happened_?" Dean shook Sherlock again.

"_I don't know_!" Sherlock yelled finally. Dean stopped, his breathing heavy. John glanced around the waiting room and saw that everyone had cleared out.

"Look you two, you need to separate before we get kicked out. Hospitals have policies," John said. Sam nodded.

"C'mon Dean, think of Molly."

Dean shook Sherlock one more time, then let him go. Sherlock sneered at the man and straightened his shirt and jacket that had been crumpled. He stared down at Dean, but he didn't seem phased in the least.

"What happened to her then?" he asked, glaring up at Sherlock from his seat.

"We don't know. We do know that she was attacked by three separate people, two different weapons, and multiple defensive wounds-"

"But why did she do it? Molly doesn't take risks like this," Dean practically growled.

"She did it because she wanted to impress him," Castiel suddenly said. He pointed up at Sherlock when Dean gave him a questioning gaze.

"What?" Sherlock asked, turning to Castiel. He was genuinely confused, one of the rare times that he had ever been so.

"She wanted to impress you because of your affinity for strong women. She wants to be…a tough girl," Castiel suddenly turned to Dean. Dean sighed and covered his face.

"Dammit," he muttered. "As if we don't have enough to freaking worry about."

Sam nodded somberly.

"Hang on. What exactly is it that she was doing in order to impress Sherlock?" John asked. Dean looked up while Sam got a worried look on his face. The brothers exchanged a look and were about to say something when the doctor came into the waiting room.

"Alright, she can have visitors now. But one at a time."

John was the first to enter the room. He did his doctoral duty; checking what kind of medication she was being given, looking at her chart to make sure everything was in order. Molly watched him with tired, amused eyes. When John felt secure in the fact that she was receiving the best care possible he walked up to stand beside her head.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, feeling stupid. Of course she wasn't feeling very good. But she just smiled and shrugged slightly.

"Like I got sent through a damn wood chipper," she said tiredly. John laughed slightly.

"Well, it is nice to see you doing better. I thought I should warn you though; your cousins are here," he said. She stared at him, a confused expression on her face. Then her eyes widened.

"Uh oh," was all she said. John nodded in amusement.

"Yeah. Well, Sam and I were able to keep Sherlock and Dean from killing each other, so no worries there."

Molly groaned and rubbed her eyes.

"I'll let one of the others come see you before you fall asleep," he said, patting her hand. Molly thanked him.

Next to come in was Sherlock. He stared down at Molly for about a minute. She stared right back at him. Tonight's attack had awoken something in her.

Suddenly he placed his hand over her exposed hand and squeezed slightly.

"It is nice to see you doing well Molly," he said softly. Molly squeezed back, her grip much weaker than his own.

"I'll tell you…one day, I promise I'll tell you what happened," she whispered, her eyes sincere. Sherlock stared at her for a moment more, then turned and, with a flair of his coat, left the room. Molly laughed, then flinched when she felt a severe pain in her ribs.

Sam entered the room not long after. Molly felt the tears that she had been holding back begin to spill over her cheeks. Sam walked over to her and wrapped her frail little body in his own hulking form. Molly took a deep breath, enjoying the familiar smell of her best friend, and leaned against him.

"What happened Mol?" he asked into her hair. Molly sighed. He laid her back against the pillows but took her hand, the one that Sherlock had held earlier. She laughed slightly at the difference between the two hands; while Sam's was work worn and scarred from years of abuse, Sherlock's were smooth and cool.

"Molly," Sam said again, catching her attention. She sighed again.

"It was….a wraith."

"What? You went after a wraith by yourself?" Sam asked, disbelief evident in his voice. Molly shrugged, then winced.

"Remember about a year before I came back to Britain? Bobby and I went after a wraith at a children's school? Well, it was easy then. I figured it would be easy now. A silver bullet and be done with it. But this one…something was wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"The wraith…it controlled the women. It sent them after me. It convinced them to kill me. Three human women."

Sam's eyes widened. Suddenly the door opened to Molly's room. Dean walked in.

"I was tired of waiting. That Sherlock guy was starting to piss me off. Kept staring at me."

"Yeah, he does that," Molly said.

"How are you doing Mol?" Dean asked, striding over to her. Sam moved so that Dean could sit down on the bed next to her.

"Better now. It's really nice to see you two."

"Molly, what happened? Why did you go on a solo hunt? You aren't experienced enough."

"She went after a wraith," Sam said. Molly turned as best she could and glared at him. Sam shrugged.

"_What?_ Molly, why would you do…no, never mind, I don't want to know."

"Huh?" Molly blurted. She was expecting a load of questions.

"Cas told us you were trying to impress Sherlock," Sam said. Molly felt a blush creep over her face.

"That's not…completely true," Molly stuttered.

"What is the truth then?" Dean asked, his green eyes boring into her. Molly groaned, putting her hand over her face.

"I…I went after the wraith because I wanted to…to remember who I was. That I'm not just…_this_. That I'm strong, and tough, and that I can do things that many others can't. I guess I was…just trying to bring back the real me," she said. Dean kept staring at her.

"Okay okay…I may have also, very deep down, been trying to possibly impress…Sherlock," Molly blushed a brighter red. Dean rolled his eyes.

"I mean, it's not like he would have known. But I just thought…I mean, he's attracted to strong women. Not…timid girls. I just thought, if I went on a hunt and I…I don't know. I just wanted to be….more than this," she gestured at herself. Dean sighed and rubbed his face.

"But something went wrong?" he asked. She nodded and proceeded to tell him exactly what happened to her. At the end of her story Sam and Dean were both staring at her in surprise and worry.

"This isn't good. The monsters are starting to get…weird. With Lucifer out of the cage and the angels in an uproar…this isn't good," Dean repeated. Molly and Sam nodded.

Molly yawned, then flinched and grabbed her side. Dean walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead.

"Get some sleep Mol. Call us when you wake up."

"You aren't staying?"

"We can't. We have to get back."

Molly nodded in understanding.

"By the way, would you mind telling Bobby what happened for me?"

Sam and Dean's eyes widened and they shook their heads.

"Hell no, you get to tell him. We aren't going to deal with his wrath," Sam said. Molly rolled her eyes.

"Get some sleep," he said, leaning over and ruffling her hair.

Dean and Sam stepped out of the room, their hearts heavy and their minds racing. John and Sherlock walked up to them.

"Did she…did she tell you what happened to her?" John asked. Sherlock just stared.

"Yeah, she did," Dean said.

"What happened?"

Dean didn't say anything. Instead he turned to Sherlock.

"Take care of her. Make sure she doesn't do something like this again. Or else."

Sherlock met Dean's eyes, then nodded slowly. Dean turned away.

"Wait, aren't you going to stay. Just until she wakes up. We can, I dunno, change your tickets or something," John hollered. Dean stopped and turned.

"Nah, we've got to get back to work. Too much to do," he said, shrugging. Sam nodded.

"Neither of you actually have a steady job, however," Sherlock intoned. Dean glared.

"Would you _stop_ doing that? What the hell does Molly see in you?"

Dean shook his head and motioned at Castiel.

"C'mon Cas, we need to get going."

Dean and Sam turned and started heading for the exit, but Castiel didn't follow. Dean turned again, agitated at the fact that it seemed like he would _never_ get out of there, and waved his hand at Castiel.

"I would like to say something to Molly," he said. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Um, okay. Why?"

Castiel stared at Dean, then turned and walked into the room. The other four men watched through the viewing window as Castiel walked to the side of her bed.

"Molly Hooper?" Castiel said softly. Molly's eyelids fluttered and she opened her eyes.

"Hey Cas," she smiled. He looked down upon her gravely.

"Do you remember, when we spoke last, you asked me to keep my eyes and ears open about any information about the man you called 'Jim'?"

Molly's eyes widened and she sat up, wincing at the pain in her chest. Castiel leaned over and touched her forehead. Molly breathed a sigh of relief.

"The wounds are still there, but the pain should have receded," he said. She touched his hand in thanks, leaning back into her pillow.

"Now what did you want to tell me?"

The four men watched Castiel lean over and whisper something in her ear. Molly's eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand. She gripped Castiel's shoulder and they saw her mouth 'Are you sure?.' He nodded again. Then her face broke out in a wicked smile.


	7. Deal With A Demon

You know what, they're all my favorites!

On a side note, i'd like to extend my thanks to the BBC run 'Molly Hooper's Blog' (for helping me figure out Molly's age) and SuperWiki for the info on the supernatural books.

* * *

><p>Molly was able to leave the hospital only four days after entering. The doctors were astonished at her amazing recovery (apparently, Castiel hadn't <em>just<em> taken away the pain…he had also decreased the time it took to heal). She was still limping slightly when she went back to work three weeks later, but she was no longer in any pain.

During those three weeks John made sure to check in on Molly every day, bringing her news of cases (at least, the ones she couldn't read on his blog). He would show up to help her change the dressings on her wounds. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson would tag along, a Tupperware full of food. Sherlock, however, never came along. John would make up excuses for the man; he was on a case, he was in the middle of an experiment, he was in the shower trying to get blood out of his hair.

On the day before she was due back to work John showed up, as usual. When Molly heard her bell she limped her way over to door, careful not to move too quickly. She had already torn her stitches twice. She threw open her door and her eyes widened. Not only was John standing there, a sheepish look on his face, Sherlock had decided to accompany him.

"Oh, hello Sherlock. What…what are you doing here?" she closed the door slightly. She wasn't all that…comfortable, with Sherlock in her home. Her home was where she could be herself; her hunter self. And she wasn't ready for him to figure her out.

"Just in to check up on you. Change your bandages and whatever else John had been helping you with. Ah, you have tea made," Sherlock said it all in one breath, pushing the door open before Molly had a chance to close it.

"Sorry Molly. He insisted. Now, let's take a look at your side."

Molly sat down on the couch and watched Sherlock with a wary eye as he wandered around her flat. She was glad she had decided to clean a couple of days prior (being cooped up in her flat for days on end was starting to drive her up the wall…literally), but she knew there were a few bits and bobs floating about that she didn't want Sherlock to find. Lucky for her, due to increase in people wondering 'What is _that?_' or 'What do you use this for?' when they used to come to her flat, she had a list of handy lies stored inside her mind. Speaking of…

"What in the world is this?" Sherlock asked, picking up a glass vial of yellowish liquid. He pulled the cork off the top and took a sniff, his nose wrinkling.

"It's perfume," she said nonchalantly while John examined the wound on her side. Sherlock stared over at her. She wasn't about to say it was actually Van Van Oil from a hoodoo priest that she had bought in New Orleans when she was 16.

"I've never smelled this on you," he said, his nose still crinkled at the strength of the smell.

"It was a gift. And, as I can tell, you think it is too strong too."

"Then why keep it…sentiment?" he asked. Molly grinned. How cute was it that he didn't understand these things. She nodded.

"Yes Sherlock. Like I said, it was a gift."

Sherlock glanced at Molly, his gaze calculating. She stared back, then realized that, for the first time since she had met Sherlock, they were actually holding a complete conversation. And she hadn't stuttered or blushed once.

Maybe getting nearly killed was a good thing, she mused.

Sherlock moved on to look through her books. Molly paled slightly when she realized that her supernatural books were mixed in with her regulars.

Sherlock crinkled his nose at some of the authors. He knew their work and, honestly, wasn't even near impressed. Then something caught his attention. It was an old book, very old. If he had to guess, he would say sometime around mid-sixteenth century.

He pulled it out carefully and opened the book, flipping to the middle of the book. He was astonished to discover that the words inside were not in English, but Latin.

"Oh Sherlock, please be careful with that," Molly yelled from the couch. She jumped up, ignoring the indignant sounds from John. She walked over and carefully tried to take the book from Sherlock. He held the book up out of her reach.

"Can you actually read this?" he asked her. She stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

"I learned how to speak Latin when I was a kid," she shrugged. Sherlock's eyes widened. He brought the book back down to eye level and glanced over it. His eyebrows furrowed.

"I only know a little bit of Latin, but I know for a fact that this word here means 'demon'. What kind of book is this?"

When other visitors had found the book, she would tell them that it was an old bible. Most people believed her because they couldn't read Latin. But suddenly she was faced with something she had never dealt with before. Molly hesitated for too long and Sherlock smiled.

"This has something to do with what happened that night, doesn't it?" he asked. Molly stared up at him. John walked over, an exasperated expression on his face.

"Sherlock, give her back the book," he scolded. Sherlock didn't even look at him. He was too busy staring down Molly.

She knew he was going to figure it out at some point. Sherlock was the type of person who just _couldn't_ let sleeping dogs lie. But, she wasn't ready for him to find out. Not yet. Not until she confirmed what Castiel had told her.

She decided her best route, her only route if she were to be honest with herself, was to tell him the truth. He would be able to tell if she were dying anyway.

But, she wasn't going to tell him the whole truth.

"It is Peter Binsfield's _Classification of Demons_," she said, sliding her hands under the book and snapping it shut. She carefully slid it back into the same spot on her bookshelf while Sherlock stared at her again. He glanced back at her bookshelf. He realized that he didn't recognize many of the books (which was a new one for him. His mother had always insisted that her sons be literate and well-read above the norm). He pointed at a book.

"And what is that one?"

Molly looked to where he was pointing. He pressed her lips together and sighed.

"It is the _Rituale Romanum_."

"And that one?"

"An original Old Testament."

"And this?" he pulled a fairly new looking, leather journal. Molly reached out and took it from his grasp.

"Not for you to look at. It's…personal."

"A diary?"

"A journal," she replied, carrying it away into her bedroom. When she left the room John took that moment to smack Sherlock in the arm.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"What did I tell you before we got here? No going through her belongings," John scolded, walking back over to the couch. He ignored Sherlock's eye roll and annoyed huff. Molly came out of her room a moment later, followed by her cat.

"Oh, and who is this?" John asked.

"My cat Toby."

"The one Moriarty took a liking too?" Sherlock asked off-handedly. John huffed and 'face-palmed' himself. Molly stiffened slightly, then relaxed.

"John, would you take a look at my leg. I think I tore the stitches again."

* * *

><p>A couple of days had gone by and Sherlock was heavily involved in another case. Every night since she had come back to work Sherlock had been showing up randomly, asking her questions in hopes of catching her off guard. It was…tedious.<p>

For the first time since meeting Sherlock she actually _didn't_ want him in her morgue. She needed privacy for what she wanted to do.

So that night she brought some items from home, and a little something that she had borrowed from the boys. She pulled a small decorative box from her bag, shaking it slightly. Inside the graveyard dirt, bone of a cat (that she had swiped from the veterinarians office when she took Toby in for his checkup), and a small photo of herself rattled around.

She spent the rest of her shift pacing around nervously, knowing that what she was about to do could lead to her swift demise. But she had to try.

When her replacement showed up early she thanked the heavens above (although, thinking back on it, the heavens probably weren't all to impressed by what she was getting ready to do). She bid her replacement, an elderly woman named Gladys, a swift goodbye before she could get stuck in a conversation with the woman. She stopped quickly in the ladies bathroom and changed into her hunters gear; tight black jeans, boots, and her leather jacket.

When she made it outside she saw the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. She walked down to the hospital parking lot, a smile gracing her features. Not only had she borrowed a little something-something from the boys, they had also done her the extra favor of sending Castiel with her own baby; a classic 1952 Harley Davidson chopper.

She remembered when she had first come to stay with her uncle after her parent's untimely death. She had left Bobby's house after seeing him drunk for the first time. Disoriented and still quite grief ridden, she had wandered through his rows of destroyed and dilapidated cars. Then she had spotted it; an old, hunk-of-junk motorcycle. She had pulled herself up and sat on the torn leather seat. That was where Bobby found her.

He helped her fix up the chopper. And, as she got older, they outfitted it to work for a hunter. She could remember riding it the first time; the freedom it gave her. But, when she decided to move to Britain, she made the hard decision to leave it behind, much like the rest of that life. She was supposed to be starting fresh, and the 'fake' Molly didn't ride a motorcycle.

Molly ran her hands over the shiny torso of the bike, goose bumps rolling across her arms as she smiled. This was…symbolic. Molly was shedding her shields, allowing the real her to come closer and closer to the surface.

She swung a leg over the bike and straddled it, sighing happily. She grabbed her helmet out of her bag and pulled it over her head. With a deep breath she started the engine, allowing the rumble to overtake her body. She had one last fleeting thought before she switched gears and took off into the streets of London.

_I bet Irene Adler has never driven a motorcycle_.

It was about two hours later, on the outskirts of London, when Molly parked her motorcycle. She pulled off her helmet and set it on the back before walking a few paces out. She stared at the crossroads in front of her. Then, with a deep breath, she strode into the middle. She dug a shallow hole and placed the box into the hole, covering it gingerly with dirt. Then she stepped back and waited.

"What can I do for you dear?" came a sharp, male voice from behind her. Molly turned, trying to quell the fear in her stomach. She took a deep breath to calm herself. She faced him, her head held high

"Here to make a deal?" he asked, his voice silky smooth. He was a fairly plain-looking man; short brown hair, dull brown eyes, and a stocky body. But she knew it was all a guise, a meat suit. Inside the body lurked something beyond evil and fear. Inside lurked _a demon_.

"No. I'm here because I want to speak to the demon Crowley. He's the big boss, am I right?" she said, trying to channel Dean's cockiness. The demon stared at Molly a moment, then an evil grin over took his face.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean," he feigned ignorance. Molly rolled her eyes, then pulled a gun from her waistband. The demon started laughing.

"Oh, you are a hunter then? You should know guns can't kill me," it chortled.

"Then you should research a bit more. This is The Colt," she cocked the gun and aimed it at the demon, which had stopped laughed and was now glaring at her.

"Crowley. Now."

Suddenly he was gone. Molly uncocked the gun, but didn't put it away. She wasn't sure this would even work. She was about to turn and go back to her bike when she heard another voice.

"You asked to see me?"

Molly turned.

"Are you the demon Crowley?" she asked. The demon nodded.

"My…minion told me you wished to speak to me directly. So what can I do for you my dear?"

"I want to make a deal with you," she said, her quivering voice betraying the fear she felt. She knew that Crowley was far more powerful than any simple crossroads demon.

"Ah, well, that is the norm the-"

"No, not a soul deal. Something else."

This peaked Crowley's attention. He placed his hands in the pockets of his expensive suit and glared at the girl.

"What are your terms?" he asked. Molly grinned.

* * *

><p>Molly leaned against her motorcycle while Crowley paced back and forth in front of her.<p>

"So, you are saying that you are going to willinglyhelp me?" he asked.

"I wouldn't say _willingly_. More like…this is going to be beneficial to the both of us."

Crowley rubbed his lower lip with his thumb, then laughed.

"This…this might actually work," he finally said. He span around quickly and held out his hand to Molly.

"What, no kiss?" she asked, then covered her mouth. That was something Dean would ask, not her. But Crowley just laughed.

"Not unless you _do_ want to give me your soul."

Molly stood up and took his hand, shaking it swiftly before tearing it out of his grip. She was turning to go when he said something that made her stop.

"You know, your name keeps ringing a bell. Molly Hooper…I know that from somewhere."

She turned when he snapped his fingers.

"Ah yes, I remember now. A couple. The Hoopers. Made a deal with them, oh, almost…31 years ago."

Molly's eyes widened when Crowley shot a grin her way.

"Have you ever wondered how your parents died?"

Tears came to Molly's eyes.

"No…you…you're lying," she trembled.

"The memories are coming back. They came to me, begging for me to save their daughters life. Apparently she had been a stillborn. Her name…was Molly," he was all out grinning now at the look on Molly's face.

"They both pledged ten years. Guess they must have thought that they could do it one after the other; your daddy lives for ten, then your mommy for another ten. Enough time to watch you grow up. Guess they should have read the fine print."

Molly whipped the colt out and aimed it at Crowley, cocking it. Suddenly she could see it; the bodies torn to shreds, the wide, expressionless eyes. The markings of a hell hound attack.

"Now now Miss Hooper. You still need my help. If it makes you feel any better, think of it this way. If your parents had never sold their souls to save you, you wouldn't be here to save your friends. It all works out."

Molly's hand shook. She so wanted to pull the trigger. But her logical side took her. She knew he was right. But god, she wanted to kill him.

She finally lowered the gun.

"Why did you tell me that?"

Crowley shrugged.

"I'm a demon. Do I need a reason?


	8. Moriarty's Deal and Molly's Revenge

We're finally nearing the end. I think this chapter was probobly hardest and most fun chapter i've gotten to write so far. I hope you all enjoy!

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, but the current adventure is!

* * *

><p>And so Molly waited. And waited. She waited for that other shoe to drop. Things were to quiet. She was ready to set her plan in motion, just to see if it would fall through or not.<p>

But, when it did finally happen, it wasn't the explosion she was expecting. It was small, barely noticeable.

Molly had just finished her shift at St. Bart's. A bit groggy and hungry, she made her way out of the morgue. On her way up she noticed two men standing nearby. She realized that she recognized both of them.

One was Greg Lestrade. The other was the man from months ago. The one that had escorted Sherlock to the supposed body of Irene Adler. She walked up to them. As soon as they recognized her they stopped talking.

"Hello gents," she greeted, a big fake smile making its way onto her face.

"Hello Miss Hooper," the man from before greeted.

"Hey Molly," Lestrade murmured. He looked…concerned. No more than that. He was downright worried looking.

"What's going on?" she asked. But she knew. She had known for a while that something like this would happen. She peeked around them and her eyes widened.

"What happened to John?" she asked. That was something she wasn't expecting. The other man sighed and rubbed his face. Lestrade glanced at him in annoyance, then turned back to Molly.

"He…was attacked. We're not sure by who. But whoever it was…they took Sherlock-"

"Enough Lestrade. She has heard enough," the other man interrupted, his tone steely. Molly turned to glare at him. He stepped back slightly.

"No. Greg, what happened?" she growled.

"Sherlock and John were on their way to a crime scene I called them too, but they never made it. We found John in an alley way a couple hours later. It's…it's pretty bad."

Molly brushed past him and walked into the darkened room. John Watson laid there, his body hooked up to all sorts of machines. She put a hand over her mouth, then walked over to him and grabbed his hand in her own.

"John, if you can hear me, I'll save him. I'll save Sherlock. I give you my word."

John, of course, didn't say anything. Molly bowed her head, sending out a prayer, then turned around and left the room. She walked back down the hall until she saw the man from earlier. She ran until she had him cornered.

"Where is Sherlock?" she asked. The man looked down his nose at Molly, but she just glared defiantly back.

"I don't know. His cell was with John, so we can't track him that way. And whoever took him was careful to leave no evidence."

Molly stepped away from the man.

"Right…well I should be going then," she whispered. She turned and was about to leave when she heard the man call her name.

"Miss Hooper, if you can save my brother, please do it," he didn't have the finished the statement. She knew that he knew that if it came down to it he would rather she die than Sherlock. Now things made more sense, the man being Sherlock's brother.

She nodded, then left the hospital as quickly as she could. Her first stop was her flat. She walked inside feeling detached, like an out of body experience. This was it. It was finally time.

And maybe, just maybe, would be able to shed the old Molly, the tired, timid, Molly that she had clung to all these years like a security blanket.

Molly shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out very slowly. Then she opened her eyes and got to work.

First was finding something suitable to wear. She dug through the trunk at the end of her bed that hid all of her hunters gear. She pulled out a black tank and stared at it for a moment before pulling it on. She grimaced when she realized that it bared for more of her midriff than she was usually comfortable with, but this whole situation was about making an impression.

She pulled on a pair of low slung, hip hugging blue jeans and pulled her riding boots on over those. She took a few paces and jumped once or twice, smiling at the traction. She slipped her arms through her leather riding jacket and was just pulling on some leather riding gloves when she heard Toby exclaim in surprise. She turned around, whipping the Colt off of her bed.

Crowley grinned up at her from where he leaned against her dresser.

"Preparing for battle, are we?"

"Just picking out the right armor," she said, lowering the gun but not putting it away. She walked over to her bed, keeping one eye on Crowley, before reaching under her pillow to grab her knife. It was her favorite; a simple silver blade with a leather handle. But the reason it was her favorite was because it was the only thing John Winchester had ever given her. He never usually acknowledged her, due to his constant distractions (i.e.: demons, ghosts, his sons, etc.). But for her fifteenth birthday he had given her this knife as almost a second thought. She had cherished it since, and it, in turn, had never failed her.

"Ready to go?" Crowley asked. Molly nodded.

"You know where he is?" she asked. Crowley shrugged.

"I have an inkling. But like I said; I can't get to him. Not while that thing is around his neck. You get it off of him, and I'll take care of the rest."

* * *

><p>Sherlock opened his eyes before shutting them again quickly. He groaned, trying to get the pain in his eyes to recede slightly. The room was far brighter than he was ready for.<p>

When he finally felt that it was alright, he opened his eyes again and scanned the room, blinking profusely. He realized that he was in a warehouse. Boxes and barrels surrounded him, with an undefinable symbol. He thought back and tried to remember what had happened.

The last thing he remembered was John and he sitting in a taxi speaking about their latest case. And then…something had happened. A…truck, or something of that size, had hit them head on. After that he could only remember little flashes.

John and he being pulled from the taxi.

John being beaten by a very large man.

Being picked up and thrown into another vehicle.

Hands being tied behind his back while someone laughed manically in the background.

Sherlock's eye's widened as he realized that John might be dead even now. He tried to move, but realized that he was tied to a chair. He tried to call out, but the gag in his mouth prevented that.

"It's no use Sherlock. You are _mine_ now," came a voice. Sherlock tried to turn his head, but a shooting pain shot through his head. He realized that he had probably hit his head when the truck hit them.

"You also have a broken leg," came the voice again. Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction more when he realized that he knew that voice.

James Moriarty stepped into Sherlock's view. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the man's appearance.

Normally well dressed and kept up, James was now the opposite of such. His hair was wild, and a thick five-o-clock shadow darkened his face. His eye were rimmed with red and bloodshot. The look on his face was…manic. Absolutely manic.

Sherlock looked down. His jacket was stained with dirt, his shoes scuffed, and his shirt was splattered with blood. Every couple of seconds he would reach up and toy with a small leather bag around his neck.

When he noticed Sherlock studying him, he smiled.

"Bit worse for wear, don't you think? But, these last few weeks have been…difficult. But now, it's all over Sherlock. It's all over."

The smile slid from his face, and he gripped the bag around his neck again. He wandered away. Sherlock noticed a slight limp in his step. He eyes widened suddenly. Moriarty had wandered over to a table and had pulled a large, rusty knife off of the table. Sherlock noticed a wide variety of blades and other random sharp objects littering the table.

"I told you that I would burn your heart out," he hissed, the manic smile showing back on his face. He picked up another knife, this one a bit less rusty. Moriarty turned around and looked Sherlock in the eyes. That is when Sherlock saw it, in Moriarty's eyes.

Desperation… and pure unadulterated rage.

Moriarty slid the knife off of the table, bringing it over to Sherlock. He waved the knife in front of Sherlock's face.

"But first, we have to get it out."

Moriarty took the knife and began popping the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, one by one, until Sherlock's chest was bared.

Sherlock's breathing sped up and, first the first time in a very long time, he feared for his life. Moriarty was angry, but worst still, he was desperate. And desperation breeds madness.

Moriarty sent another manic smile Sherlock's way before he pressed the knife into the skin above Sherlock's heart. Sherlock screamed into the gag. Moriarty used the side of the blade to slice the skin like soft butter.

"_Enough Moriarty!_" came a female voice. Moriarty stopped, his eyes scanning the warehouse. Sherlock tried to regain control of his breathing. He turned and watched Moriarty's face shift from shock to amused.

"Look at this. The final actions of a desperate man?" the voice asked. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. He recognized the voice, but he couldn't place it through the pain.

"Well well well, look who it is," Moriarty stood away from Sherlock and fingered the bloody knife.

"Didn't think I'd see you, of all people, here."

Suddenly Sherlock saw her. His eyes widened again. He couldn't believe it. Moriarty was right; she was the last person he had thought he would see here.

Molly Hooper.

As if she could read his mind she stepped close to Sherlock. She ducked down beside him and whispered in his ear.

"It is alright. I'll get you out of here."

Sherlock shot her a look of confusion and frustration, but Molly just smiled softly and stood up again. Suddenly she pulled a knife from a sheath she had on her leg. She didn't move to cut his bindings, just stood there.

Sherlock kept staring at her. This wasn't the Molly he knew. The quiet, timid Molly that had stuttered and blushed every time he would set foot in her morgue. This was someone else. Someone..._strong_.

Molly glanced down at Sherlock again, placing a hand on the back of the chair he was in, before turning to Moriarty.

"Hello Jim."

Moriarty stared at her, ignoring the blood that was dripping down his arm from the knife. He was coming to the same conclusion that Sherlock had. Then he grinned.

"It is so good to see you again, _pet_," he mocked. Molly's eyes narrowed. Then she smiled.

"Moriarty, I've been wondering something," she said suddenly.

"What would that be?" Moriarty asked, putting the bloody knife back down on the table and pulling the rusty one up again. It was almost as though they were having a…decent conversation.

"When we started dating, I forgot to ask you…how old are you, Jim?"

Sherlock glanced up at Molly in surprise. Of all the things…

Moriarty seemed to feel the same way. He stared at Molly, then began to laugh.

"Are those your last words?" he asked, picking up the heavier blade. He turned to stare at her, and suddenly Molly was reminded of a reptilian creature; with his evil little eyes and his unnatural, jerking movements. And, somehow, for some reason…

She wasn't scared.

"It is a simple question Jim," she said. She tapped the blade on her denim-clad leg, tracing patterns with the tip. Moriarty huffed in amusement.

"All right," he mocked. "I'm thirty-three."

Molly nodded her head.

"And, if I remember correctly, you told me your parents died when you were twenty-three?"

Moriarty looked genuinely confused. He lowered the blade slightly.

"Just shy of."

Molly began to pace in front of Sherlock, who was staring at her. He kept trying to figure out what she was getting at, but every time his brilliant mind would come up with something he would dismiss it instantly.

"So, you were almost twenty-three when you're parents died. And now you are thirty-three?"

Moriarty stared at the woman before nodded slowly. Suddenly he slammed the knife onto the table.

"What the hell are you getting at?"

Without missing a beat Molly stopped pacing. She turned and stared at the man, then she opened her mouth.

"So you were twenty-two when you sold your soul?"

All movement ceased in the room. Moriarty had gone pale, his eyes wide and…frightened? Sherlock observed; yes, it was fear.

"How…how did you…" Moriarty stuttered. His hand had reached up to grip the bag around his neck. Sherlock stared between the two in absolute confusion. For the first time in his life he didn't understand what was happening, and he didn't like it.

Molly, on the other hand, looked fine. In fact, she was smiling

"Oh Jim. If you had just gotten to know me a little better," she shrugged and clucked her tongue.

"Oh well, too late now."

Moriarty suddenly reached behind himself and pulled out a gun, aiming it at Molly. Sherlock noticed that his hands were shaking. Molly didn't even seem perturbed.

"What made you do it?" she asked suddenly. Sherlock found himself wondering the same thing, whatever it was.

Moriarty didn't put the gun down, but his eyes did flick over to Sherlock. Then he glared back at Molly.

"Carl Powers," he spat out. Sherlock's eyes widened and while Molly gave Moriarty a confused look.

"But…that was years before you made the decision. Almost a decade."

"Yes, but that was also when I first heard of _him_," Moriarty snarled, pointing at Sherlock with his gun less hand. Molly turned to look at Sherlock, who shrugged his shoulders slightly. Then, suddenly, the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Molly turned back, flipping her hair out of her face to reveal a smug smirk.

"You were jealous," was all she said. Moriarty laughed. It was a loud, crazed, barking sound that reverberated through the warehouse.

"_Jealous?_ Oh no, I was _better_ than him! I killed Carl Powers!" Moriarty screamed. Molly stared him down. She began to pace again.

Suddenly Sherlock noticed what she was doing. She was getting closer to him, inch by inch. And he was too far gone to notice.

"Yes, but Sherlock figured out that it was murder. And, if you are better than him, why did you make the decision?"

"I grew up poor, unlike _Sherlock_. I needed the resources in order to take him down. I needed the abilities and the supplies. And…I needed my parents dead," he grinned, baring his teeth at Molly. She stopped in her pacing to give him a wide eyed stare.

"You sold your soul in order to kill your parents?" she whispered in disbelief. Moriarty suddenly looked proud of himself.

"Oh no. I needed to be able to control, to take over with an iron grasp…their deaths were just icing on the cake," he laughed to himself.

Molly stared at the man, hatred filling her eyes. She felt the rage that she had kept bottled up all these years making its way to the surface. She gripped the knife tightly until her knuckled turned white. But when she spoke, it came out in a deathly calm whisper.

"_My_ parents sold their souls in order to save me. _You_ did it in order to have yours killed."

Sherlock was stunned when she looked up and her face was steady and calm. But her eyes…her eyes burned with a ferocity he had never seen in the woman before. Moriarty seemed to have noticed too, because he was lifting the gun again.

"How long did he give you Moriarty?" she asked, her voice still a calm whisper. Moriarty looked around.

"Ten years," he finally said. His eyes widened when he realized what he had said. A dark smile graced Molly's features.

"It is past your due date _Jim_."

Suddenly she ran forward and threw out her leg, effectively kicking the gun out of Moriarty's hand. He stepped back in surprise, nearly falling when she rushed him. The only thing holding him up was the tight grip she had on the bag around his neck.

"And you want to know something Jimmy? _I'm here to collect_," she hissed. Moriarty's eyes went wide. In one fell swoop Molly flicked her knife up, cutting the thong that held the bag. Moriarty fell to the ground with a thump. His eyes were wide, his hands trembling in fear. Molly held the bag and lit it on fire with a zippo she had hidden in her pocket. She smiled and threw the burning packet down in front of Moriarty.

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," she grinned. She then turned and made her way over to Sherlock. She bent down and cut the bonds tying him to the chair. As soon as his hands were released he reached up and tore the gag from his mouth.

"What-" he started to say, but Molly placed a finger in front of his mouth and shook her head.

"Not here. I promise, I'll explain everything. But for now, let's get out of here."

Molly turned back around when she heard the clicking of a gun being cocked. Moriarty was pointing the gun at her, his face twisted in rage and fear.

"If I'm going to hell, then you two are coming with me."

"No, I don't think so," came a prim voice. Moriarty whipped around and nearly screamed. He was ghost white.

"Hello Crowley," Molly said pleasantly, although she was less than pleased to see the demon. She bent down to check Sherlock's leg, then slid an arm underneath his torso to help him up off of the chair. He nearly collapsed at the pain in his head, but he managed to get himself upright.

"There you go. Don't worry, you'll be right as rain soon," she whispered. Sherlock stared down at the girl…no woman. When had she become…this?

"What are you?" they heard Moriarty say. Molly turned and was mildly surprised to see him staring straight at her.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"What the _hell_ are you?" he hissed out. Sherlock expected Molly to be offended, but she just smiled.

"I'm a hunter."

Moriarty's eyes widened and then he _collapsed_. He fell to the ground in a heap and began laughing. Crowley watched him, eyebrows raised, before pushing himself off of the boards he had been leaning on. He walked over to Sherlock and Molly, leaving the crazed man on the floor for the moment.

Sherlock felt this sickly urge to run away from the man. He was pretty normal looking, but there was something about him that was…off. Sherlock couldn't quite place it, but he didn't like it.

"Well, you held up your end of the bargain, so I'll hold up mine. I'll make sure James Moriarty's souls burns for all eternity."

"And?" she pressed. Crowley rolled his eyes.

"And I will help the Winchester's-and Bobby-to find and, hopefully, destroy Lucifer. Are you happy?"

Molly gave one sharp nod. Sherlock stared between the two of them. He honestly had no idea what was going on. Crowley stared at her for a moment longer, then turned around to where Moriarty was now lying on the ground, silent.

On a second look, however, Sherlock and Molly noticed his mouth opened wide in a silent scream. Sherlock followed Moriarty's eye line, but there was nothing there. He suddenly felt Molly tense up.

"We need to leave," she whispered. Sherlock nodded and Molly helped him limp his way to the door. Just as they were about to leave they heard a blood curdling scream. Sherlock turned around, ignoring the sharp pain in his head. There was Moriarty, writhing on the floor, blood covering the cement as he screamed in pure agony.

But…

Nothing was attacking him.

"C'mon Sherlock, we need to go," Molly whispered, pulling him along.

"But what-"

"I promise I'll tell you. But we need to go _now_."

Sherlock allowed the woman to half-drag, half-carry him outside. When they got outside Sherlock took in a deep breath. It was midday, and the sun was making his headache much worse. Molly set him down against the wall of the warehouse and began examining his head. She hissed in sympathy.

"This is really bad. I'm surprised you aren't unconscious. C'mon, let's get you home."

She pulled him up and helped him onto a motorcycle. When she got on in front of him he stared at her in confusion.

"I didn't know you drove a motorbike," he said slowly, finding it hard to enunciate his words. Molly turned slightly to face him, a smile on her face.

"You do now. Now Sherlock…"

"Yes?"

"Do hold on tight."

* * *

><p>Images flashed in Sherlock's vision.<p>

Molly carrying him like an infant up the flight of stairs to his flat.

_When did she get so strong?_

Fussing over his head and leg. Calling a name into the sky.

_It isn't that bad…_

A man in trench coat standing over him, placing his hand on Sherlock's forehead. Sudden unconsciousness.

_Haven't I seen that man before?_


	9. The Detective and the Hunter

So we have come to the end.

And I would just like all of my lovely readers to know that there IS a sequel in the works. It is based during and after Reichenbach falls, and explores quite a bit more into the Supernatural world, and into the relationship between Sherlock and Molly. It is called 'The Final Hunt', and I will be posting periodically. Thank you my lovelies!

Disclaimer: I disclaim any property rights, but i claim the lovely emotions!

* * *

><p>Sherlock's eyes snapped open. This time he was in a darkly lit room; his bedroom. He pushed himself off of the bed when he suddenly remembered the wound on his head. Reaching up he searched through his hair, but couldn't find…anything. No blood, no wound. Not even a scar.<p>

Gingerly he reached down and touched his leg where it had been broken earlier. Also nothing!

Sherlock stood up quickly and nearly fell back over. He caught himself on his bed. Even though his leg was fully healed he still felt weak. He pushed himself up and sat back down on the bed. He realized that he was wearing the rare t-shirt and pajama pants that he actually owned. He pushed himself up after moment and slowly made his way to the hamper. He reached inside and pulled out a blood covered shirt.

Who…? He thought to himself, but he didn't finish the thought. He could hear voices coming from the sitting room. He dropped the shirt back into the hamper and hurried to the door. He threw it open and, using the hallway for balance, made his way into the kitchen.

"Sherlock?" he heard a male voice exclaim. He looked up to see John come stumbling into the kitchen. His arm was bandaged, his chest was wrapped in an ace bandage, and he was leaning heavily on a crutch. But the smile on his face made it all okay.

"John! Are you alright?" Sherlock stumbled forward and nearly took John out with him. He felt a pair of arms grab him underneath his armpits and get him upright. Sherlock turned to see Lestrade smiling down at him.

"C'mon Sherlock. Let's get you onto the couch."

After Sherlock had been settled onto the couch he began asking the questions that were swirling around in his brain. But the first one that jumped out of his mouth brought him up short.

"Where is Molly?"

John settled into his chair. He didn't seem surprised in the least.

"She's back home in America. After she brought you here she apparently had business to take care of there."

Sherlock looked momentarily confused.

"How long have I been asleep?"

John glanced at Lestrade, who raised his eyebrows. John turned back to face Sherlock.

"Almost three days."

Sherlock's eyes bugged out of his skull.

"Why did I sleep so long?"

"According to Castiel-"

"Who?"

John gave Sherlock an exasperated look.

"Molly's friend. Apparently, when he was healing you, he said you were highly undernourished and under rested. He took care of it for you."

"He _what_? _Healed me?_" Sherlock gaped at John, wondering if maybe the man had hit his head a little bit too hard. John rubbed his lower lip and took a deep breath.

"Do you remember the trench coat guy from the hospital?" he asked Sherlock slowly. Sherlock nodded. John took another deep breath, glanced once more at Lestrade, and then said something that Sherlock never thought would actually come out of John's, or anyone else's for that matter, mouth.

"He was an Angel."

Sherlock stared at John, then started laughing.

"This…this is a joke isn't it?"

John glanced at Lestrade again.

"Greg, would you please go get me the books."

Lestrade nodded and left the sitting room.

"John, whatever this is, it isn't as funny as you think. Now what really happened?"

John didn't say anything. A couple minutes later Lestrade reentered the sitting room, his arms laden down with books. He set them gently on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. He leaned forward and began shuffling through the books, but stopped when he came upon one he recognized.

It was the old book from Molly's flat; Peter Binsfield's _Classification of Demons. _

He pulled out a couple of others he recognized from her flat and many that he had never seen in his life.

"She wanted you to have them. She said that they might help," John said, shifting in his seat slightly.

"Help?" Sherlock asked, not looking up.

"With understanding this."

Sherlock looked up and saw John holding out Molly's journal. Sherlock leaned forward and took it gently in his grasp. He opened it and turned to the first page.

_This journal belongs to Molly Hooper. Hunter._

Sherlock looked up, then something clicked in his head.

"She's…she's not coming back is she?"

John looked down. This time Lestrade took over the conversation.

"She said she doesn't know. Apparently something big is going on back in America. Something they needed her help with. She doesn't know if she'll survive it. That…that's all she told us."

Suddenly Sherlock remembered something he had heard back at the warehouse.

"_And I will help the Winchester's-and Bobby-to find and, hopefully, destroy Lucifer. Are you happy?"_

Sherlock stared at the two men. Lestrade suddenly stood up.

"Well, I should get going. I've got paperwork the size of Mount Everest piled on my desk."

"Did she…explain everything to you?" Sherlock suddenly asked. Lestrade and John shared another glance.

"A bit," John said. Lestrade nodded.

"How much?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade sighed.

"Enough, for me at least. In this case, ignorance is bliss."

"Not for me," Sherlock glanced up at him. Lestrade nodded.

"I know. I'll check in on you two later."

"Thanks Greg," John yelled. Sherlock opened up the journal again, leaning back against the couch. John watched Sherlock for a moment, his face full of concern.

"He's gone Sherlock. Moriarty is gone," he finally said, his voice full of relief. Sherlock looked up from the journal.

"He is, isn't he?"

* * *

><p>Every day for the two weeks after he had woken up Sherlock had been terrorizing the workers at St. Bart's morgue. He would show up and demand to see Molly Hooper. And, when they would tell him that she was still on 'holiday' (as they had been led to believe), he would storm out of the morgue.<p>

When he wasn't being an unholy terror to the morgue workers, he was scanning through the books that Molly had left him.

Today he was reading the Key of Solomon, his eyes wide as he scanned the words, making notes in his own leather bound notebook.

He closed the book, rubbing his strained eyes. He opened them and found John standing in front of his, holding out a mug of tea. Sherlock thanked him and took a sip, breathing in the heady scent. John sat down next to Sherlock and pulled Molly's journal over, eyeing Sherlock carefully. The man had been…possessive of the books Molly had left behind. He flipped it to the most recent entry.

_James Moriarty is dead. Finally dead. And his soul will rot in hell for all eternity. Dean won't tell me what happened to him in hell, but that should be evidence enough that it is a terrible place._

_I also saved Sherlock. For the first time I was the one to save him. I was the strong one. I hope he understands that I did this not just for him, but for all of us; John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg…all of us._

_Castiel will be coming to get me soon. I'm going to help Sam and Dean track down the last of the Horsemen; Pestilence and Death. I'm not sure how we're going to take down Lucifer. And I'll admit it; I'm terrified._

_I'll be thinking about everyone back in Britain while I'm taking down demons and slaying monsters. _

_It will keep me alive. It will keep me fighting._

John sighed. He had read this entry about four times since Molly had left. He could remember when she and Castiel had shown up in his hospital room. He had come out of the coma earlier that morning and kept asking where Sherlock was. What had happened.

Those were the worst hours of his life.

And then they had shown up. Molly had sat down on the bed and told him what had happened and then some.

And then Castiel had come over and laid a hand on John's head. Suddenly he felt…better. A million times better. She convinced his doctor (with a little bit of Castiel's coercion) to let her take him home. When he came home he found Sherlock passed out on his bed.

"Let him sleep as long as he needs," Castiel warned John. Molly helped him to his own bed.

"Molly-"

"Sleep John," she said. Castiel had then reached over and touched John's forehead.

John shut the journal and smiled slightly.

"Get some sleep Sherlock," he patted Sherlock's shoulder. The man nodded but didn't look away from the Key.

* * *

><p>Sherlock glided through the halls of St. Bart's. It was ten pm, the time that he showed up every night to the morgue. He pushed his way through the double doors and stopped.<p>

No one was there.

He rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. He turned around to go and find someone when he heard a voice.

"They told me you come here around this time every night."

Sherlock whipped around.

Standing in front of him was Molly…but not Molly at the same time.

She looked…haunted. And sad.

She had her hair in a ponytail and her lab coat on, but those were the only things he recognized. He could honestly say he had never seen her wear such tight clothes, or show so much skin before. And was that…a scar.

Sherlock reached out and touched the scar. Molly flinched slighty. It was right below her right shoulder. It looked like a slash, but like none he had ever seen before.

"What did this?" he asked.

Molly looked down and touched the scar.

"Oh, erm, demon...well, demon_s_. That's all I'll say about that."

Molly looked up suddenly and her eyes filled with tears. Sherlock understood instantly.

"Something happened. Something bad," he stated. Molly nodded, wiping at the tears.

"Sorry, I'm so silly," she whispered. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

"No…no you're not," Sherlock said. Molly looked up at him, really _looked_ at him, and then she smiled.

"No, I guess I'm not. Not as bad as I used to be anyway," she attempted to joke. Then she sighed, and turned around.

"Here to see a body then?" she asked hesitantly. Sherlock stared at the woman. He noticed how everything she did, everything she said, oozed with confidence. Never like how she used to be.

"No, I'm here to see you," he said softly. The old Molly probably would have fainted at those words. But this Molly just turned, slight shock registering on her face.

"Oh?" she asked.

Suddenly he had wrapped his arms around her. Molly, for that split second, channeled her old self by freezing up and turning blood red. Just as soon as it happened, the feeling passed. She strung her arms around her torso and pulled him tight to her. And then she began to cry.

She cried for Sam, for sacrificing himself to save them all.

She cried for Dean and Bobby, for losing a brother and a son.

She cried for Sherlock and John, for exposing them to her world and all the torture and torment that came with it.

But most of all, she cried for herself. For everything she had lost, _and_ everything she had gained.

And Sherlock held her the entire time, allowing her to bawl into his shirt, not commenting on the stains she was definitely leaving. When she her cries finally reduced to hiccups he released her.

"Are you alright?" he asked slowly. Molly nodded, then smiled, albeit a bit of a watery smile.

"Would you like some coffee?" he asked. Molly raised an eyebrow, then nodded again.

"How do you take it?"

"Black," she said softly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. He turned to go when Molly's voice made him stop.

"Sherlock, do you realize that this is the first time you've ever gotten _me_ coffee," she teased. Sherlock smiled slightly.

"Yes, I guess it is, isn't it."

He left the room to go down to the employee lounge. Molly continued to smile as she watched him walk away.

Molly sat back on her stool and looked around the empty morgue room. She knew she should start her job, but at the moment she was just enjoying the calm and peace. She took a deep breath and thought back to the last few weeks, and how much she had changed in such a short amount of time. How everything was different now. Everything was going to change.

Molly Hooper loved the morgue at night. The peace and quiet. It was where she could think. Where she could come to be alone with her thoughts.

But, she mused as she watched Sherlock enter the room, two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands.

Sometimes it is nice to have company.


End file.
